


Dining with Frogs

by CherryBlossomTide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs Irene Adler's help to bring down Moriarty's network. Irene drives a rather hard bargain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Cover art by the fantastically talented **frogsfortea** , whose deviantart account can be found here: http://frogsfortea.deviantart.com/gallery/44364100/BBC-Sherlock .

 

Irene feels it as soon as she enters the flat. Something is wrong. What is it? She reaches her hand inside her purse. There is a revolver in the secret compartment inside. She eases it our carefully, eyes darting around the darkened corridor. The living room is empty, half empty coffee cup on the table, exactly as she left it. The kitchen, dark and still, the fridge humming to itself. Turning the corner into the bathroom, Irene feels it. A faint breath of cold air across her face. Someone has left the bathroom window open, just a sliver.

She takes pulls the gun out of her purse, flicks off the safety catch.

"I know that you're here. You'd better show yourself at once." Her voice rings out cold, crisp and powerful: her London voice - a voice she hadn't used for months now. She feels an utterly irrelevant pang, nostalgia. Ridiculous.

She edges carefully down the corridor to her bedroom. The door stands ajar and she can see clearly that the duvet is creased – someone has been here since she left this morning. Someone has lain on her bed. Very carefully Irene places her hand on the pillow. It is faintly damp. Smells of her shampoo.

"Credit where credit is due." A deep voice reverberates from behind her. "This is almost the last place I would have expected to find you."

Irene whirls around, almost dropping the gun. Her heart is thumping, surprise, joy, fear stream through her all at once. He is standing behind the door, a tall still figure, face half hidden in shadow. Irene's heart constricts. _He's alive, he's here, he's…._

_He's one of the most dangerous men you've ever met. Don't forget that now._

She swallows once, hard, and throws back her head. She is London Irene, Leboutins, lipstick and ice.

"Mr Holmes. This is – unexpected."

"Is it?" Sherlock Holmes takes a step out of the shadows, his sharp face thrown into relief by the light from the door. He is thinner than he was when last she saw him; the sharp angles of his face look positively painful, and his voice is hoarse. "Don't you watch the news, Miss Adler?"

"The news said you were dead." Irene points out.

"And you know how talented I am at arranging such trifles." Sherlock crooks his lips at her, a poor pretence at a smile. "Put the gun down, Irene."

Irene lowers the gun only a fraction. "First, tell me why you're here."

Sherlock's eyes gleam in the darkness. Is he angry? No, Irene decides, amused.

"I need your help."

"What sort of help?"

He looks away, eyes travelling the room, weighing up options in his head. How much to tell her. Irene shifts the gun in her hands. He'd damn well better tell her everything.

"For a start, I need a place to stay for a few days. Sleeping rough takes its toll."

"Is that why you appropriated my bed?"

"It seemed like a fair exchange." Irene recalls her own stay at Baker Street. He'd left the window open, not out of forgetfulness but as a tribute to the memoy of Irene's own sojourn in Baker Street. Not a sentimental allusion, more likely a deliberate message. _Time to return the favour._

"I don't really do fair." Irene says flatly.

There is a trace, just the smallest trace, of a smile in his eyes as he looks back at her. "True. Nevertheless, you will help me."

"Why?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows a fraction. "There are at least three answers to that question, Miss Adler– the most pertinent of which is that I can make it worth your while."

"Indeed? How?"

Sherlock looks down at her steadily. "I arranged your death Irene."

"Yes, and?"

"And, if you wish me to, and I believe that you do, I can bring you back to life."

A long silence, as Irene turns these words over in her mind. Then, slowly, she lowers the gun. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I can make it safe for you to return to your old haunts, old companions, perhaps even your old name…. if you so wish." He casts a sarcastic look around the bedroom. Ugly flowered wallpaper, net curtains, unidentified stains on the wall. Her life, as of the last eighteen months. _Of course I so bloody wish._ "As long as you scratch my back, Miss Adler…."

Irene looks at the man in front of her for a long moment, assessing, calculating before abruptly turning and putting her gun back in her drawer, locking it tightly.

"Well then." she says briskly. "It appears we have things we need to discuss. Dinner?"

***

They sit in Irene's kitchen, Sherlock hunched slightly over the counter. Irene pulls out a packet of tortellini and plops it in boiling water. She watches her visitor out of the corner of her eye. He may be in a worse state than she initially thought, she realises. In the full light of the kitchen his clothes are practically hanging off him and his pale skin is almost grey, with an unnerving sheen. The way he hunches suggests he is in pain – some form of injury inadequately treated. The newspapers had said that he had jumped off a roof – perhaps he really had. She feels a stab of pity, which she quickly smothers. Playing nursemaid was not her style (not without a sizable pay check, at any rate). Sherlock Holmes, of all people, wouldn't expect that from her.

Still, if he is going to be of any use to her, he will need to be in better shape than he is in now.

"When was the last time you ate anything?"

Sherlock blinks up at her for a moment. "Are you being literal or metaphorical?"

Irene shoots him a whiplash smile. "Literal. For now."

"I found a Cornish pasty in a bin under a railway bridge – day before yesterday."

"I'm not sure which is a more disgusting thought – a literal second hand pasty or its metaphorical equivalent."

"I do not engage in sexual intercourse under railway bridges." Sherlock informs her cooly. "It was still in its packet."

"You couldn't buy food?"

"I could, but most shops have CCTV, and I need to avoid some _very_ observant people. Anyway. I was in a hurry, and it was there. It was a perfectly adequate arrangement."

"Hardly." Irene points out. "You're as grey as a tramp's underwear."

"Considering I died two weeks ago, I think I am in rather good form.". An odd spasm pulls at the edges of his mouth. He turns slightly, cover his face with his hand.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm fine. Headache. Low blood sugar, no doubt." Sherlock waves his hand. "Your pasta is boiling."

He's right – bubbles have risen to the surface of the saucepan, and the water has gone cloudy, overcooked pasta breaking apart in the water. Irene hates cooking. Life was so much easier when she could charm someone into doing it for her. Kate had always rather enjoyed being ordered to the kitchen – she'd even taken classes, taking pains to improve herself, whipping up elegant little gourmet meals in the style of Jamie, Nigella, Deliah.

Irene pauses. It had been a while since she had thought of Kate. It is oddly painful.

Irene drains the pasta and divides it into two bowls. She plops Sherlock's portion unceremoniously in front of him. He looks at it without much interest.

"So. How did you do it?" Irene slides into the chair opposite him. "Fake your death?"

Sherlock sneers. "Can't you work it out?" he stabs at a forkful of pasta.

Irene considers. "Body double? It's hard to find a convincing one with its face intact, but you could have Doctor Watson identify it as yours – that ought to convince most people."

The pasta hovers in the air for a second, and then is returned to the plate untouched. Sherlock's face is, if possible, even paler. _Interesting._

"Unimaginative." he snaps. "You have just described your own effort at playing dead."

"Not exactly." Irene says, with deliberate cruelty. "I didn't have any _loyal friends_ to lie for me. I had to do it the hard way."

Sherlock turns his face away, a fraction of an inch. His long fingers tighten on the countertop.

"Ah." says Irene. "So _he_ thinks you're dead too."

"It was necessary." Sherlock does a passable impression of detachment, voice neutral, eyes fixed determinedly on the room behind Irene – but Irene can tell that beneath that all concealing coat every muscle has tensed. The tension is radiating off him in waves.

"You should eat," she says, more softly. 

Sherlock shrugs, but picks up the fork again. They eat in silence. Irene thinks back to the day two weeks ago when she saw Sherlock's face peaking over the top of the newsstand. _Suicide of Fake Genius!_ Irene had wanted to laugh. It seemed clear as crystal to her that the story couldn't be true – the man who had solved inexplicable deaths with a glance, who had cracked the code on her phone, the man who had rescued her from a terrorist cell – he couldn't possibly have killed himself. It was too, too pedestrian.

No, it was a set up, part of some glorious adventure, Irene had thought, and she had gone about her day with a light step. She'd rather looked forward to reading about it in the papers when at last the full story came out. Then, when she had got home, she had looked up John's blog. _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

That had been a rather nasty shock.

She _knew_ John Watson, she'd spent rather a pleasant afternoon with him in Baker Street chatting, watching Sherlock Holmes mutter and pace as he deduced. And Irene was a good judge of character. Nothing in John Watson's wry open demeanour could have led her to believe he was such an accomplished actor. And that blog entry – those two stark lines – rang with a very real pain.

She'd gone back over the news report, the descriptions of the death. She'd even broken her own rules and hacked into Scotland Yard's databases to take a look at the coroner's report. It had left her sick and shaking. Could that man, the most extraordinary, brilliant, _pitiless_ man Irene had ever met really have met such an ugly, tragic, ordinary end? Could it – could _he_ – really be over? Jim Moriarty was brilliant, Irene knew, and more than a little obsessed. Could he really have beaten the detective after all, and so completely?

Looking across at the man opposite, now scooping up pasta with suddenly discovered hunger of the half starved Irene thinks that even if he hasn't been the death of Sherlock Holmes, Jim hasn't done too shabbily. He seems to have done a pretty effective job of swinging a wrecking ball into Sherlock's life. The man before her is gaunt, strung tight, almost to the point of snapping (really why else would he come to _her_ for help?)

"More?" she asks, as Sherlock pushes the plate away, empty.

Sherlock shakes his head.

Irene takes a bottle of white wine out of the fridge, pops the cork. She pours it into two glasses and pushes one towards her visitor.

"I don't drink."

"It's medicinal." Irene smiles. "Come on." She pulls him on to his feet, guides him across to the sofa. (He doesn't stiffen at her touch, doesn't try to shake her off - a sign of just how below his normal functioning he really is.) "It's time for you to tell me exactly what you are planning to do – and how you intend to bring me to life again."


	2. A Seaside Resort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes Irene an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I must reiterate - not mine.

Ten minutes later, the wine brings the faintest smudge of colour back into Sherlock's cheeks, and the food seems to have finally worked its way into his bloodstream, because he is looking around the flat now with brightened searching eyes. He is sitting on her sofa now, long legs stretched out, shoes on her coffee table. Irene curls on the sofa beside him, back against the armrest.

"It really is extraordinary." Holmes says softly, almost to himself.

"What is?"

Sherlock tilts his head at her, ice blue eyes examining. "I imagined you'd start a life somewhere abroad. Las Vegas, Moscow, Dubai, somewhere – "

"Exciting?"

"Somewhere where you could exercise your _talents._ "

Irene shrugs. "A large portion of my clientele were fond of international travel. If I started up in business somewhere new it would only be a matter of time before I was recognised. And anyway, I've no desire to build my reputation again from scratch. It isn't a nice ladder to be on the lowest rung of."

"So I understand. And, of course, you aren't getting any younger." He says, with a positively vicious detachment. "What is the typical age of retirement for a woman in your profession? Twenty eight? Thirty? That's what that game with our friend Jim was really about, wasn't it? You wanted your _pension_ ."

"That – and it amused me." Irene says airily. Stretching out she rests her feet lightly against the black fabric of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock glances briefly at her feet as they make contact, face expressionless. Irene smiles broadly. It's an odd sort of revenge, but it is an immensely satisfying one.

"Still, it isn't exactly as though you had no other alternatives." Sherlock continues, eyes still fixed on her well-manicured toes. "You could have travelled almost anywhere in the world, you could have made a new life doing almost anything. And yet you came here. To Worthing."

Irene shrugs. "It's not a bad old place."

"It is the very definition of dull." Sherlock states.

"I like being near the sea. It's romantic."

Sherlock looks at her as if she's gone mad.

Irene decides that its time to get to the point.

"What, exactly, are _you_ doing here, anyway? You aren't just looking for a place to crash. Certainly not in _Worthing._ " Irene imitates his tone of disdain.

Sherlock's head tilts back, that unexpectedly soft looking mouth of his tightening slightly. He speaks to the ceiling. "Moriarty ran a vast and complex network of criminal conspirators. I intend to destroy it."

Irene's eyebrows climb into her hairline.

"That's – ambitious."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, as if to indicate that he's surprised she would expect anything less from him.

"And you think I can help you." Irene asks slowly.

"I need information."

"I don't have any information. I've been out of circulation for over a year."

"But you _do_ have contacts. You could approach them, work your way back in. I need an inside man, Irene. I can't do anything without data."

Irene sits up straight, staring at him. "You want me to spy on Moriarty's network?"

"Yes."

There is a long silence. " _Do you have any idea how risky that would be?_ "

"Yes." Sherlock meets her gaze candidly. "If we succeed we both get to go back. To our real lives. To London."

Irene laughs. "You really think you can outwit Moriarty…?"

"Perhaps not. But it hardly matters. Moriarty is dead."

"Dead? "

"Blew out his brains. In front of me, as a matter of fact. I tried not to take it too personally."

Irene takes a moment to register this. Somehow the words _Jim Moriarty_ and _dead_ don't seem like they ought to belong in the same sentence.

"So. Now we only have to outwit his underlings." Sherlock crooks her a half smile. "I think between the two of us we're clever enough for that."

Irene ignores the odd shiver go through her spine at his use of the word we.

"You're insane."

He shrugs. "Perhaps. I have a very high success rate, though."

"Yes, you do seem to be the living embodiment of health and prosperity."

"I'm alive." Sherlock says levelly.

Irene takes a deep breath, tries to think through this, tries to calculate, the benefits, the risks. Somehow the thought of Jim Moriarty with his brains blown out keeps intruding. She remembers the last time they met, over tea at the Ritz (both parties agreeing that if a thing was worth doing, it was worth doing in _style_ .) He had grinned at her all the way through their interview and at the end of it had bowed and, in mock courtly fashion, kissed her hand.

Sherlock is watching her face, closely, brow slightly creased. Waiting for her answer.

"If I do this - you'll be able to make it safe for me, in London?" she asks carefully. "No retribution from anyone?"

"Absolutely. My brother owes me a few favours." Sherlock's mouth quirks bitterly.

Irene considers carefully. If anyone can truly protect her, it certainly is Mycroft Homes. But -

"How do I know I can trust you? You could send me in there and then betray me as soon as you get what you want."

"If Moriarty's associates realise that I am still alive," Sherlock is speaking to the ceiling again, tonelessly. He has expected this question and his answer is rehearsed. "They will murder my friends."

"John?"

Irene watches Sherlock's Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows.

"Yes. And – others. So. You see. You have the power to destroy me at any moment, any time you feel the tiniest bit threatened. All you have to do is open your lips. You may rest assured I will do everything in my power to ensure that you do not find that necessary. "

There is a long silence.

"Very well." She swallows. "Give me – give me a little time to think this over." She gets up.

"All right." says Sherlock. "Sleep on it. I'll take the sofa. And Irene – "

"What?" Irene turns at the door, looking back at him. Sherlock is leaning forward again, pale eyes burning holes into her face. "If you speak to anyone about this – if any harm comes to my associates because you overstep – I _will_ kill you. And I won't do it quickly."

Irene nods, mouth a little dry. She licks her lips. "Goodnight, Mr Holmes."

 

 

When Irene wakes the next morning Sherlock Holmes has already left. She makes coffee and toast, and stares at the place on the sofa where he (presumably) slept. She might wonder if the whole of the previous night might have been the product of an overexcited imagination if it weren't for the fact that the cap has been left off her toothpaste, and half her shampoo emptied from its bottle. Sherlock Holmes certainly isn't shy about taking what he wants. Irene smiles to herself, running over the conversation from the previous night in her mind.

It had been good, seeing him again. To feel that odd unexpected warmth in the pit of her stomach, that tingle of uncertainty that seems always to thicken the air between them, like a heat haze. While Sherlock Holmes is in her life, however briefly, it will not be boring. He might be able to bring her life's work crashing about her ears with one twist of those elegantly sculpted lips - but he most definitely is not boring.

Speaking of which – Irene remembers – she is likely to be late for work if she doesn't hurry.

As with everything else in her life, Irene's newest job is largely a matter of finding the right disguise for the moment. Irene has spent hours in front of the mirror picking out exactly the right look for the job and now she has it down pat – knee length skirt, more flowing in style than the ones favoured Irene Adler, a floral blouse, modest little hoop earrings, flat shoes. She pins one side of her hair back with a pretty slide and let the rest hang loose down her back. She emerges as Iris Adams, pretty, sweet, a little melancholy. Exactly the kind of employee who would be considered a treasure at Mrs Miliver's Ladies Fashions. It isn't a difficult job. Irene pins a smile to her face and helps middle aged women pick out the correct skirt or hat for their daughter's wedding. It isn't really so different from the sex trade really – a few well placed compliments, an air of courteous control, and the clients are putty in your hands.

Unfortunately, she isn't allowed to carry a whip.

"Iris, darling, you don't mind watching the shop for a little while, do you?" Mrs Milliver calls as she enters. "I just want to go to and do a bit of shopping."

"Of course," Irene said sweetly. "Take as long as you want."

Mrs Milliver's 'shopping trips' are getting longer and more frequent, Irene notes –well, it suits her well enough. She likes having the freedom of the empty shop, no one twittering around her. And today the space is doubly welcome – Sherlock's offer is going to take some consideration. She straightens the ugly, ill designed clothes on their hangers, absently missing Kate. If she were here they would have had a laugh about these ridiculous styles – Kate might insist on pulling a few of the worst of them to pieces and running them up into something more presentable on her sewing machine.

But those days are over. She won't see Kate again. Probably she has found a new employer already – or perhaps she has set up in business herself. She had potential. Irene isn't vain enough to think Kate would cry over her for long.

And what if Sherlock did manage to bring Irene back from the dead? How would Kate react to that? _Sentiment_ , a familiar voice growls in her memory. Irene shakes herself mentally. If she is going to take this gamble she wants to do it with a clear head. It wouldn't do to be undone the same way twice. It will not be because of nostalgia over an old fling. Or because of the chance to open the games again with a certain long limbed detective with eyes like ice. ( _Oh, she_ has _been alone too long._ )

Thinking about it _objectively_ , then. Irene has no desire to continue life at its current pace for much longer – and, realistically, even if she leaves her current abode to travel as Sherlock Holmes apparently expected her to do, it is unlikely she'll find a life that was so satisfying to her as the one she has left. Not with her limited means, and the constant need to be looking over her shoulder….

What Sherlock proposes is breathtakingly dangerous but it is a danger entered into deliberately and with both eyes open – unlike this rabbit like existence, crouching in safe houses and waiting for her secrets to be blown wide open.

And she will have Sherlock Holmes at her back, of course. An ally for once, rather than an adversary, or a smirking knight in shining armour. She will have a chance to play his game - and if they succeed he will owe her.

It is an interesting prospect.

"Do you do bra fittings?" A stout woman with a hat like a misshapen lamp chop cuts into her thoughts. Irene hadn't noticed that she isn't alone in the shop any more.

Irene gives herself a shake, and fixed her Iris-smile to her face. "Of course, Madam. Follow me."

(She is fooling no one, least of all herself. Of course she will take the deal.)

(The only question is , on whose terms.)


	3. Do You Want To Hear About The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock turns Irene's flat into a landfill, and Irene comes up with some rather alarming terms of agreement.

It looks like a printing press has thrown up over her flat. Sherlock Holmes sits cross legged on her coffee table (why on the coffee table, when she has a sofa and two armchairs to chose from?) surrounded by bundles of paper, smudged inky documents stacked in heaps, overflowing onto the floor in front of them. Sherlock Holmes has been here one day, and her neat anonymous apartment is starting to resemble a landfill. John Watson must be a very patient man.

"She's a gambling addict." Sherlock says as she enters.

"I'm sorry?"

"Mrs Milliver. That's where she goes when she leaves you in charge of the shop. Bookies on Brigadier Street."

Ah. Irene might have known Sherlock Holmes would have mapped out her new life already.

"You followed me to work?"

Sherlock throws her a contemptuous glance. "Please. I have more important things to concentrate on. Though I'd start looking for new work, if I were you. If Mrs M continues at her current rate she'll lose her business – its only a matter of time. Addicts are all the same."

"You should know." Irene says sweetly, and goes to the fridge. Wine, she thinks, a nice big glass of it. "How did you know about Mrs Milliver?"

"Bags, in your closet." Sherlock has returned his attention back to the pile of papers, fingers tracing lines of text. "Several with the Milliver's logo – not a very professional job, so it's a small business. There are too many for them to be a reflection of your normal shopping habits, and Milliver's is clearly not the kind of establishment you would patronise voluntarily. So, a place of employment, and very liberally run judging by the number of freebies you've brought home. You are stealing from them. You don't need to steal, you do it because you are alone, bored, and because you can. Conclusion: your employer is more than usually incompetent. Such a dunderheaded individual would never have been able to have started her own business from scratch, therefore her stupidity is a recent development, result of emotional turmoil, ill health or a newly acquired addiction. You'd know if it was either of the former, therefore she is an addict - and gambling is the most likely candidate, at her age."

"Seems like rather a long shot."

"Check her internet history. You'll see I'm correct. And I'll have a cup of tea, if you're making one."

Irene clearly isn't, and what's more, has no intention of doing so. Since the sofas are out of commission she sits in the kitchen and sips her wine, watching Sherlock sorts through his papers, his brow furrowed, eyes moving ceaselessly. She feels rather like a naturalist, given the chance to watch some rare species in its own habitat for the first time. Although honestly he seems more like a creature from another planet, somehow managing to be completely detached from, and yet passionately absorbed in, everything. One can't help wondering what he would be like in the bedroom. Would be apply that same unrelenting focus, that utterly ruthless determination to whatever hapless individual should happen to fall in with him? Or would he be nervous and unsure, venturing into an arena so far from his area of expertise, likely to unlock so much inconvenient emotion, so much sentiment? She remembered the stillness that came over him when Irene touched him, the carefully veiled confusion. Jim Moriarty had called him a virgin, but then dear Jim _was_ rather prone to exaggeration.

"You really do have a one track mind, don't you?" Sherlock says, without looking up from the papers in front of him.

Irene doesn't ask how he knew what she was thinking.

"It was my job, you know. You must have noticed, living with John - when a doctor meets a new person, he'll start trying to diagnose all their unknown ailments. You probably start trying to figure out what crimes they have been committing. I like to figure out what people like."

"What an extremely worthwhile skill." he sneers.

"You'd be surprised how often it helps." Irene says mildly. "I've been thinking, by the way. About your offer."

Sherlock actually bothers to look up at that. His eyes scan her face intently.

"And you've decided to accept."

"Yes, I have. Under certain conditions."

Sherlock shifts slightly on the coffee table, leaning his elbows on his thighs, long fingers steepled under his chin.

"I'm listening."

"First of all, you will explain to me in detail exactly how you plan to bring me back to life. I'm not doing a thing unless I believe it will work."

Sherlock nods at this. "Obvious."

"Secondly, I'll need protection. I'm not going in there blind, and I'm not going in there alone. You are going to be with me every step of the way."

"I can hardly-"

" _Every step._ I need to know I can trust you, Sherlock. No lies, no miscommunications, no disappearing acts. If I so much as click my fingers you will bloody well come running. Do you understand me?"

"I believe so." He says it dismissively.

 _Not good enough._ Irene stops, and looks hard at Sherlock in his crisp suit, and with cold eyes, and his unnervingly childlike posture. How to make sure of him, really sure?

And suddenly out of nowhere an idea strikes which almost makes her laugh.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock is frowning at her.

"Do you like fairy stories, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's face hardens very slightly.

"Can't say I'm a huge fan, no."

"There was one we read at school – it was my favourite. About a Princess and the Frog. Do you remember it?"

"Probably deleted it. Is this relevant?"

Irene lets a smile spread over her face, slow and predatory.

"New terms of agreement. While I am dealing with Moriarty's people you will meet with me every day."

"But-"

" _Every day._ You'll have dinner with me."

Sherlock frowns at that, but then shrugs "If I must."

"And after dinner you will sleep in my bed."

Sherlock's lips part involuntarily. His face really does make the most beautiful picture – face pale, eyes wide, tense as a hunted rabbit.

Irene laughs. Sherlock frowns at her, suddenly furious. "Do you think this is a joke Irene? I'm – I'm dead and you're using this as an opportunity to - what - seduce me?"

"I never said anything about sex, Mr Holmes." Irene raises her eyebrows. "All I require is that you spend a few nights sleeping beside me. Sharing a mattress. That's all."

Sherlock stares at her open mouthed. "Why?"

"You're the great detective," Irene shoots him a pointed look from under her eyelashes. "Why don't you figure it out?"

Sherlock looks skeptical. "This is ridiculous."

Irene shrugs. "Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

Sherlock breathes out through his nose, heavily.

"Fine. Anything else?"

Irene mentally runs over the memory of the story in her mind, and then smiles. She'd forgotten the most important part. "Only one more thing. A kiss."

"A kiss."

"Yes, Mr Holmes, one kiss. I hardly think it will break you."

"I can't imagine what you hope to gain by this."

"What I hope, Mr Holmes, is to have some fun, while this rather dangerous game of yours lasts. Call it – an exercise in professional curiousity. I still haven't quite figured you out."

"I doubt very much that that will help you." Sherlock sneers. "But very well. Do you want me to do it now?" He says with apparent indifference, getting to his feet.

"Not now." Irene says lightly. "I'll tell you when."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Fine. We have a deal then?"

"We do." Irene agrees.

Sherlock nods once, shoulders relaxing slightly, and sits back down among his papers. "We'll begin tomorrow then. I could still use that tea, by the way." He says, bending over a newssheet. Irene rolls her eyes, and tops up her wine glass. She does not put the kettle on.


	4. Trust Issues

Irene wakes with a start, every nerve on edge, certain without knowing how that something is in there, in the darkness, with her. Automatically she reaches towards the bedside table for her revolver, but before she can reach it a hand closes around her wrist.

"Oh, I don't think so." A voice says in her ear.

The lamp snaps on, and Irene is looking up into the cold blue eyes. Sherlock's Holmes is standing above her, face pale, teeth bared. Irene swallows.

_"What did you tell them?"_ he hisses. Nails bite into her wrist.

"What? Tell who?" Irene says, struggling to sit up. "Let go of me. "

Holmes drops her wrist, but continues to loom between her and the cabinet where the revolver is secreted.

"Moriarty. What did you tell him about me, about John. God, I should have known. You and your _fairy stories_ …." Sherlock trails off with a very animal snarl. Irene looks at him carefully. His face is chalk white, and veins are standing out on his forehead and his neck. She has a feeling she is going to have to play this very carefully, if she wants to avoid being throttled.

"What makes you think I've told Moriarty anything?" She asks, in as calm and reasonable a tone as she can manage.

Holmes takes a wad of paper from his pocket and throws it at her. It appears to be a page of one of the newspapers he's been looking at earlier. "District Council to abolish Recycling Scheme…?" Irene reads in bemusement.

Sherlock hisses, and turns the sheet of paper over. It is a set of what looks like class photographs –children sitting in rows, staring out at the camera with practised smiles.

"From the Worthing Gazette.Your local newspaper, Irene, from thirty years ago. Recognise anyone?"

Irene looks again, carefully, blinking away the haziness of sleep. She definitely doesn't recognise any of the teachers – and the children can't be more than 5 years old, how can he possibly expect her to – Oh.

Boy in the bottom row, knees scuffed, dark hair badly cut. Not smiling.

"Is that – "

"Jim Moriarty, yes. Although apparently in those days he was known as Jamie MacKenna. Still. I never forget a face."

Irene's mouth is suddenly dry. She swallow, forces herself to meet Sherlock's gaze levelly as she passes the photo back. "Coincidence."

"Oh really."

"I promise you. It's a coincidence."

"So you just happened to find yourself a safe house in the very same, _very dull town_ that Moriarty grew up in."

"These things happen."

Sherlock bares his teeth in a snarl. "You ought to know by now Irene, I am not a man to be lied to."

"I know that. I'm telling you the truth. I haven't heard from Moriarty or any of his friends since you left me in Karachi."

"Why should I trust you?"

Irene looks down at the bedsheets, and sighs. It's a good question. She runs through several alternative answers in her mind, before finally deciding that the truth is probably the best tactic after all.

"You shouldn't." she answers at last, looking up and holding his gaze as levelly as she can. "I did ask Moriarty for protection, after you broke the code on my phone. He told me to go to Hell. Said he didn't reward failure. I haven't contacted him since. Not out of loyalty to you, but because there wouldn't have been any point."

There is a silence. Sherlock is watching her face, closely, obviously unconvinced.

"For God's sake," Irene snaps. "Think about how you beat me – think about what I did. I made your name my password, I took a stupid risk, all because I had - feelings. Do you honestly think Jim Moriarty would have any use for someone who makes that sort of mistake?."

Sherlock looks away, at last, face thoughtful. "He wouldn't have been impressed." He admits.

"He certainly wasn't." Irene shivers, remembering the look of exaggerated contempt on Jim's face.

"Rather hypocritical of him, really." Sherlock mutters to himself, with an odd half smile. "But," he continues, smile fading. "That wouldn't have stopped him using you for information. that how they knew to target Mrs Hudson, John…"

"Now you're simply being _stupid_." Irene snaps. "Anyone with an eye in their head could see how you feel about John - and Mrs Hudson, after that incident with the CIA agent. What else could I have told them?"

Sherlock looks at her, eyes glittering dangerously. "You could tell them something now."

"But I haven't."

Sherlock doesn't reply, merely continuing to stare down at her as if he could x-ray her skull. Sighing, Irene pulls out her phone from under her pillow.

"I'll prove it. If I'd told them anything, your friends would be dead, right?" Irene hits a number on her phone, lets it dial.

"Hey," says Sherlock, suddenly realising what she is doing. "Don't – "

Irene puts her finger to her lips, and switches the phone onto speaker.

They listen as the phone rings out twice and then is picked up.

" _Look, if this is the newspapers, I've told you, you can piss off. I don't give a damn what you're offering this time. Stop calling me_." John Watson's voice rings through the room. At the sound of it, Sherlock makes an involuntary movement, as if he's received an electric shock, and he puts a hand over his mouth. There is a moment where they both stay frozen, Sherlock's eyes fixed on the phone, Irene's on Sherlock.

The silence goes on a beat too long because Watson's voice sounds again, sounding less sure of itself this time. " _Hullo?_ "

This seems to galvanise Sherlock. He lunges for the phone, pressing the off button, half turned away from Irene, shoulders tense. "That," he growls, "was not necessary."

"Apparently it was."

There is a long silence, and Irene tries again, "Sherlock."

The detective is still glowering down at the phone, shoulders hunched, refusing to look at her. Irene is not sure why this bothers her.

"Look. If you're going wake me up in the middle of the night to quiz me on my loyalties…"

Sherlock rounds on her furiously.

"You leave John out of this. Whatever games you want to play – with me, with Moriarty, whoever. You're not to go near him. Do you understand me?" The veins are starting to stand out in Sherlock's neck rather alarmingly. Even more disturbingly there are what look like tears in his eyes.

"All right." Irene says breathlessly, and holds up her hands in a placatory fashion. "No more phone calls to John. I promise."

Sherlock breathes out a heavy sigh and, rather abruptly, sits down on the bed. Irene looks at his pale, taut face and feels a wave of pity for him.

"Look," she says. "At the end of the day it comes down to it – you either trust me or you don't. If you don't, then you can leave. It's not like any of this was my idea, after all. You came to me, remember?"

It's a logical argument, and, as expected, Sherlock frowns, considering it. All of a sudden a hand shoots out, curling around her wrist again.

"Taking my pulse again?" Irene asks lightly.

"Next best thing to a lie detector test."

One of Sherlock's long fingers moves slightly on her skin, stroking over the indentations previously made by his own nails. It is such an unexpectedly gentle gesture, that Irene finds herself battling against a completely adolescent rush of feeling. Stupid. She reminds herself to keep her breathing even as she looks steadily back at Sherlock.

"Why are you here? In Worthing?" he asks softly.

Irene feels the air leave her lungs again, but forces her voice to stay level. "I told you. I like the sea."

"That's a lie." He watches her face for what feels like a long time. "But if you were working for Moriarty's people, you'd come up with a better one."

"That's certainly true."

They sit in silence for a while, and Sherlock slowly releases his fingers from around Irene's wrist.

"Fine." He says. "But I'll be watching you."

"I wouldn't expect anything else." Irene's voice sounds strange in her ears, a little too hoarse. She tries again, adopting the smoother harder tones she always associated with her London self. "Am I allowed to go back to bed now?"

Sherlock nods, getting to his feet clumsily.

"You know, given the nature of our deal, you really should stay." Irene suggests, coquettishly patting the unclaimed space beside her.

Sherlock frowns down at her. "No," he says. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we begin. Goodnight, Miss Adler."

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes." Irene flicks the light switch off, and settles back into her pillows, suppressing a yawn. She begins to feel a pleasant buzz of anticipation. _Tomorrow, we begin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art for this chapter by frogsfortea - _What did you tell them?_](http://frogsfortea.deviantart.com/art/What-did-you-tell-them-380332929)


	5. Leverage

Irene's first point of contact with Moriarty's gang had, ironically enough, been a police officer. DC Gavin Shedman was an occasional client (Though as far as that went, Irene wasn't really his type. Shedman obviously preferred his women to be young and submissive, and while Irene could play the shrinking violet if she absolutely had to, but it wasn't exactly what she was known for.) Irene hadn't needed to know him for long to figure out that Shedman had his fingers a few less-than-Kocher pies. A Detective Constable living in London shouldn't have been able to afford her services, for a start.

A few well placed questions in the right places told Irene everything she needed to know. Shedman was making some substantial cash on the side heading up an in-office blackmail ring. It was a clever thought – police officers are, after all, uniquely placed to access all kinds of information, and his client list was extensive…tabloids, organised crime syndicates, terrorist organizations… Of course, if information from confidential police files kept appearing in the public domain people would begin to ask questions but Shedman had managed set up a rather deft little information laundering service, and kept his own record more or less spotless. All in all it was a very impressive business, and since Shedman was not an intelligent man, Irene was quite sure that someone else had helped him out. Someone was standing in the shadows, pulling the strings.

It had taken Irene several long and boring hours paying tribute to Shedman's overinflated ego but eventually she had got a name out of him. It was a name that gave her an odd jolt to the stomach, a flood of fear and familiarity. _Moriarty._

Now Irene is meeting with Shedman again, this time in a grubby little café in Hampstead. Sherlock had accompanied her on the train although he sat in a different carriage – it wouldn't be good for them to be seen together in public, after all. Apparently he also had business in London– so he said anyway. Possibly he was just using an excuse to keep an eye on her. Irene is still smarting slightly from the memory of the previous night.

In the café she shifts in the uncomfortable chair. She is rather nervous at being in London again, where anyone might recognise her. She has camouflaged herself in a very un-Irene like pink summer dress, and had her hair has been lightened. Surely no one will recognise her?

She notices Shedman as soon as he enters. No one could mistake overconfident strut, those piggy darting eyes. She is surprised that the supposedly sharp minds of Scotland Yard hadn't recognised him for what he is long ago.

"Gavin," Irene coos, passing a coyly appreciative glance over stodgy form under the suit.

Gavin smirks at her. "Well, hel _lo_ , Blondie. Like the hair."

They order coffee.

"So. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Gavin shoots her a leering grin.

"It's been too long since I saw you. I thought we could catch up." Irene plays with her earring and smiles at him. 

He leans forward slightly, licks his lips. "No offense," he said. "But last I heard you were pushing up daisies."

"Do I look dead?" Irene giggles.

"Definitely not."

"Well then." Irene smiles. "And how is business?"

Shedman shrugs. "Same old, same old. Catching criminals so the lovely ladies such as yourself can sleep safe in their beds."

"My hero." Irene reaches across to run her fingers across the back of his hand."And the other business?" she asks more quietly.

Shedman raises his eyebrows. "Oh, is that why you're here?"

"Its one of the reasons." Irene smiles at him from under her eyelashes. "I've got my hands on some information – I'm sure it could be valuable, but I just don't know what to do with it. I've been so out of touch. I need a man who knows about the world, to help me out. Who can I come to but you?"

Irene wonders vaguely if she is overdoing the poor-little-me act. But no. Shedman is leaning forward further and his eyes have a predatory gleam. Sherlock is entirely wrong about her skill set. People are easy to manipulate when you know what they _like_.

"You could give me your information. I'll pass it on for you."

"Darling, you are too kind. But I couldn't ask you to go to so much trouble, really. All I want is a contact, a number – I'll pay you for it." 

Irene's helpless act is unraveling slightly, she knows. She can see it in Shedman's eyes as he leans back in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully. "Hard nosed little bitch, aren't you?"

Irene forces herself to continue smiling. "It isn't that I don't trust you, I just-" she lowers her eyes, and then flicks then back up to him, wide with appeal. "Please, Gavin."

Shedman ponders this for a while, fingers tapping absently at the tabletop. "Sixty per cent." He says, at last.

Irene bites her lip regretfully. "Oh dear, I can't afford that. How about – twenty percent?"

Shedman snorts. "I'd always thought it was a myth about blondes, but that dye job seems to have gone to your head. Still. I am a sucker for a pretty face so I'll say - fifty."

In the end they decide on a rate of thirty per cent, and Irene lingers, trying to get as much information on the current status of the organisation. He doesn't seem to know a lot, but any little detail could be useful to Sherlock - and to her, she reminds herself. She'll be the one walking into this man trap. They part at the café door, Irene laughingly evading an invitation to a tryst in the back on Shedman's car (hideous thought), and declaring that they simply must do this again.

 

Irene takes three separate taxis on the ride back to the station, chopping and changing routes, and doubling back on herself frequently to ensure that she is not followed.

Back in her flat she finds Sherlock pacing the living room. His hair is standing up in all directions, his body tensed. Irene takes it that his own London visit did not go well.

"Well?" Sherlock barks at her, the minute she manages to get a foot through the door.

Irene shows him the number "Thirty per cent."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. "And?"

"He reckons its all business as usual. He hasn't heard from Moriarty,"

"Obviously."

"He reckons that's not unusual though. He generally receives his instructions from someone called Fiona. That's her number, by the way."

"Hmmm. Did he mention Lestrade?"

Irene shakes her head.

"Did you _ask_ him?"

"How on earth would I have brought it up? 'Nice to see you, love the suit, and by the way have you been paid to almost assassinate anyone recently?' I'm not supposed to know about all that, remember?"

"I thought manipulating people was supposed to be your area of expertise."

"Well taking suicidal risks certainly isn't. They're not stupid, Sherlock."

"Oh, everyone's stupid." He kicks out at the coffee table which shudders at the contact. "Thirty per cent is far too high, anyway. What were you thinking? You know we're on a tight budget."

"I did my best. " Irene snaps, irritated. "Why don't you ask your brother for funds if things are so bad?"

"You are joking."

"If he knew you were alive…"

"He'd want to wrap me up in cotton wool and tie my hands with all sorts of ridiculous protocols. Send his thick headed agents after Moriarty's organisation, as if that ever worked. You have no idea what that man is like. He'd sell John and Mrs Hudson down the river if he thought it would keep me out of harm's way. No, I have to do this alone."

"With me." Irene points out.

"What?"

"Well, you're not exactly alone if I'm helping you."

"Oh, you're just a tool. You do what I want. _Mycroft_ would try and take over."

Irene just stands and stares at him for a long moment. "Is that so?"

"Yes, yes. He's impossible." Sherlock waves one if those long elegant hands at her dismissively. Irene wants to grab hold of it and snap it off.

"Whereas I am so sweetly mindless and pliable."

Sherlock turns to look at her, frowning irritably. "That wasn't– for God's sake, don't get all _emotional_."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She says coldly. "If you'll excuse me." She picks up her bag again and walks out of the flat. The door rattles on its hinges slightly as she slams it behind her.

 

She's brought the wrong kind of shoes for the beach. Her heels teeter and then sink among the pebbles, and Irene sighing, takes them off and puts them in her bag. The stones are uncomfortable on her bare feet, but at least she won't twist her ankle. She picks her way, grimly, down the beach, heading for the water line. The sea is choppy today, a convulsing mass of green grey, white spray spitting upwards at a lowering grey sky. Irene stands and watches the waves slap and drag at the shore, focussing on the sensation of the spray blowing back over her face. Stupid, she tells herself, utterly stupid and sentimental. Emotion is a weakness she reminds herself. Life is a game – taking anything seriously, allowing yourself to really feel it – that is a fatal error.

In retrospect, picking Sherlock Holmes as a playmate was a mistake. A mistake she has made twice now. Everything that came into contact with that man seemed to sharpen, grow in colour and intensity. He stripped away defences and left people raw, exposed – it was just how he was. And now Irene is feeling things she hadn't felt since she was a child. That burning helpless, anger, the humiliation…. _Just a tool._

Irene picked up a pebble and throws it, hard. It skips lightly over the waves bouncing five, six, seven times before sinking.

"You'll have to show me how to do that." A low voice says rings out from behind her.

Irene whirls around. _Of course._ "You followed me."

Sherlock stands, wrapped up in his thick black coat, looking questioningly down at her. "I had to make sure you weren't going to anything stupid. You're still carrying that number." Sherlock gestures at her bag where the all important phone number is kept. Irene feels a spiteful urge to throw it into the sea.

"I won't." She turns back to look out over the water, folding her arms over her chest.

There is a silence, and Sherlock clears his throat a little awkwardly.

"Irene. I'm aware that I can be – difficult, at times. But I very much require your co operation. I hope that you can overlook my – lapses in courtesy."

Irene looks at him curiously. "Is that an apology?"

"I don't apologise. I was merely stating facts."

"I see." It had certainly sounded rather like an apology. Irene looks sideways at the man beside her. The collar of his coat is turned up, dark curls dancing in the wind. His face is very pale, very still, eyes downcast. Irene remembers, with a returning rush of power, that at the current moment she is his only hope. He is genuinely afraid of pushing her too far, of snapping their uneasy partnership into pieces. He has more to lose than she does.

That is what decides it for her. She pulls back her shoulders and looks up at him.

"I am not a tool," Irene states.

Sherlock sighs. "Not in the technical sense, no"

"Not in _any_ sense, Sherlock Holmes." She catches him by the coat collar and pulls him downward, until his face is almost level with hers, until he can feel her breath on his face. "Do you understand me? I'm in your partner in this or nothing at all."

They look at each other for a long moment, Sherlock's face is pale, light eyes searching her face. She watches him blink at her once, twice, three times, before he nods. "Fine." He says. His voice cracks slightly.

Irene lets go of him, and he steps back, straightening his collar.

"You do realise that being made partner usually implies a rather higher level of risk."

"I'm not sure it could be any more risky, honestly." Irene points out. "I'm not putting my life blindly in your hands."

Sherlock is silent for a long time, looking out of the sea. In this light, set against the shifting light reflected off the sea, his eyes look almost transparent.

At last he takes a deep breath, and asks in deliberately neutral tone. "What do you make of Shedman, then? Is he our assassin?"

Irene considers, head tilted. "I doubt he's a stranger to violence. I don't think killing a man would be beyond him, and obviously he's had firearms training - but Moriarty would have to have offered him a considerable reward. It's rather above his pay grade."

"Hmmm." Sherlock steeples his fingers against his mouth. All of a sudden he turns, coat whirling, and begins to walk up the beach. Irene hobbles carefully after him. After a while he turns, impatiently and walks back.

"Here." He tucks his arm under hers, pulling her into step with him.

"Where did you go today, anyway?" Irene asks, a little breathless.

Sherlock tightens his lips. "I was liaising with my homeless network – seeing if they had any more information."

"Did they?"

"Nothing of significance."

He is silent for a moment, then tilting his head at the sky, squinting down at the ground as they walk. "I visited my grave."

Irene looks at him more closely. "That must have been - strange."

"John was there. And Mrs Hudson. They looked – "

Sherlock doesn't finish the sentence, but picks up his pace. Irene begins to feel that if he pulls her along any faster her feet might leave the ground.

"Oi, slow down a bit." Sherlock looks at her, irritated, but slows down somewhat. "I guess that explains the awful mood then."

Sherlock looks at her sideways, a faint glimmer of humour in his eyes. "I am told that my moods are quite frequently awful."

They have reached the path again. Irene pulls her shoes back on, and Sherlock holds out a hand, helping her up onto the path.

"Do you also frequently break into people's rooms in the middle of the night questioning their loyalties?" Irene takes his hand. His palm is surprisingly smooth under hers.

"Not usually, no." Sherlock pulls his hand away, starting to walk again. "But since you did invite into your room earlier, I don't see that you have any reason to complain."

"I do like to sleep sometimes."

"You have chosen the wrong bed mate, then." Sherlock states, then shoots her a wry half smile. "You'd better keep up, Irene. It will be dark soon – and I believe we had scheduled a dinner this evening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More gorgeous art from **frogsfortea** [_You are just a tool_](http://frogsfortea.deviantart.com/art/You-are-just-a-tool-381352789)


	6. Play the Game

At Irene's insistence, they dress for dinner. It is a little ridiculous to be wearing a cocktail dress to eat Chinese take away at Irene's kitchen counter, but Irene's never been afraid of looking silly. It wouldn't do for a dominatrix to be easily embarrassed, after all. She is surprised to find that Sherlock has entered into the spirit of things whole heartedly – his suit looks like it is fresh from the press and his shirt is blindingly white and he has somehow managed to find himself a bow tie. He looks like something out of a James Bond movie. As Irene enters the living room, Sherlock gets to his feet, offering her his arm. With an utterly straight face he escorts her into the kitchen and holds out her the aluminium kitchen stool for her. Irene isn't sure if the over elaborate manners are a subtle form of mockery, or whether he actually is taking the whole thing seriously. She suspects that Sherlock comes from the kind of family where this kind of behaviour is actually considered normal, so maybe he is simply reverting to type.

"Chow mein?" he asks her, passing the plastic take away box her way.

"Ta." Irene says, fishing out a pair of chop sticks from the bottom of the bag. "I like the bow tie, by the way. Very sexy."

"I hate wearing them." Sherlock says petulantly. "Makes me feel like I'm being strangled. But Mummy always insisted on it."

Irene suppresses a smile. "I won't make you wear it for our next dinner, then. Although you do look rather dashing. Wine?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "We should keep a clear head. We've got a phone call to make, remember?"

Irene pours herself a glass anyway. "Never do anything important with a clear head, I say."

"That explains a lot." Sherlock mutters. Irene grins at him.

"That isn't a Milliver's dress." Sherlock comments, glancing at Irene's gown.

"Certainly not."

"I'm guessing an Italian designer – Alessio perhaps, retailing at about £700 when new, from the 2010 spring collection. There's no mistaking that hem line. Reliving your glory days? That shade of blue is calculated to bring out your eyes. Sounds like a romantic notion, but in fact is very pragmatic. Despite of the vulgar wisdom of men's magazines all scientific research suggests that heterosexual males are primarily attracted to faces rather than any other attribute. As the eyes are the focal point of the face calling attention to them is the surest way to incite admiration." Sherlock finally pauses in his monologue long enough to take a mouthful of curry.

"You know, most people would just tell me I look nice."

"How profoundly uninteresting of them."

"And yet for some reason most people prefer compliments to being picked to pieces."

"If you wanted to be complimented, there is doubtless a vast array of men and women who would fall over themselves for an opportunity to sit here and drivel nonsense at you. Instead you chose to blackmail me into eating with you."

"True." Irene smiles at him. "You are more entertaining than my other admirers."

"That is because I don't admire you."

"No?" Irene arches her eyebrows at him.

Sherlock leans forward.

"You aren't wearing that very flattering evening gown because you think it will attract me. You're reminding me that you have a rather lucrative career behind you, not to mention a quite remarkable ability to manipulate simply by adopting the correct appearance. It isn't sex you're interested in. It's power. You flirt with me because that's how you control people. And because I don't fall into line, you get interested."

"Is that what you think sex is about, then?" Irene asks. "Someone trying to control you?"

Sherlock drops eye contact for the briefest fraction of a second. Then he smiles, leaning back in his chair, arms folded. "Oh, very good, Miss Adler. Perhaps I should have advised John to take up with a dominatrix instead of troubling that useless therapist of his."

"Probably." Irene agrees. She is looking curiously at the man opposite her, assessing. Bright amused eyes are issuing a challenge, but the body language is defensive, taut. If she pushes him, he'll fight her. Things could get rather heated. Does she want that? Hmm. Not just now. She leans back in her chair also, deliberately casual. "I doubt the army would be keen to fund it though. Pity really. They might get better results if they did."

Sherlock relaxes subtly. "I'll suggest it to Mycroft at our next meeting." Sherlock leans forward and spears a chopstick full of Irene's noodles. "You don't mind, do you?"

Irene shakes her head.

They call the number Shedman gave Irene from the sitting room. Sherlock lies on the sofa, fingers steeped over his lips as Irene talks. The phone is picked up after only two rings and a cool female voice answers.

"Hello, Fiona speaking."

"Hello Fiona. I was given your number by a mutual friend. He seemed to think I could help you."

"Which mutual friend?"

"Gavin Shedman."

"And in what way do you believe you could be of assistance?" the voice sounds utterly dispassionate, so much so that Irene feels as though she is talking to an automatic booking system rather than a person. This feels very very different to dealing with Jim.

"I have information."

"Can you be more specific?" Fiona asks, and Irene thinks _Press 1 if you are planning a military coup, Press 2 for to speak to your nearest local hitman…._

"Not over the phone."

"Then I suppose I shall have to arrange a meeting. Can you be in London on Thursday afternoon?"

"No, I – have a prior engagement."

Sherlock opens his eyes, and looking at Irene shrewdly. Irene turns her back on him.

"Would Friday be possible instead?"

"Let me consult my diary. There may be an opening. Ah, yes. Eleven o clock?"

"Perfect." Irene breathes.

"I'll text you a location. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"No, thank you."

"Then I'll look forward to meeting you on Friday. Goodbye."

The phone clicks off. Irene swallows and looks back at Sherlock. He is looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Irish." He comments.

"Really? She sounded frighteningly RP to me."

"Mmmm, yes, much too much so. She's had elocution lessons. The plosive consonants are always particularly telling. Did you recognise her voice? Is she someone you've dealt with before?"

"I don't think so. But then I hardly met everyone who worked for Moriarty."

"Hmmm." Sherlock abruptly gets to his feet. "I need nicotine patches."

"I don't have any."

"I assumed not." He makes a grab for his coat. "I'll see you later, Irene. Any thoughts you have about the call, jot them down immediately. Any small detail may prove essential. I may be gone for a while."

"The pharmacy is only down the street."

"I need to think. This flat. It's bad for brainwork."

"Well, don't be gone too long. You're bunking with me tonight, remember?"

Sherlock glares at her, as he hooks his scarf around his neck. "I haven't forgotten."

He is out of the door with a swing of his coat.

Irene shakes her head, moves to chuck away the empty takeaway boxes. She has a shower before bed, undresses, and reads in bed for a while. Sherlock returns around eleven, and bangs around the flat a while, before knocking softly at the door.

"Come in."

The door creaks open very slowly, and a pyjama'd and rather sulky looking Sherlock appears.

"I suppose you still consider this necessary." He says to the wall behind Irene's head.

"I do." Irene smiles, and pats the left side of the bed. Sherlock scowls at her and stalks over to the bed, lifting the covers gingerly before stepping fastidiously into the bed. Irene puts down her book and turns towards him, leaning on her arm. Sherlock sits tensely, arms crossed over his chest.

"I should warn you. I don't sleep more than six hours usually, less if I am on a case."

"As you don't wake me, I don't mind. I'm not a light sleeper."

"That nightdress strikes me as unnecessarily revealing." Sherlock comments.

Irene wonders how he noticed. He hasn't looked at her directly since entering the room.

"It isn't as if you haven't seen it all already." She points out.

Sherlock pouts.

"If bothers you, I'll invest in a pair of pyjamas." she says.

Sherlock glances at her, a little surprised, and then shrugs. "No - its fine."

"Are you actually going to lie down, or were you planning to sleep like that?" Irene asks, because he looks very uncomfortable.

"Depends. Are you actually going to sleep, or are you going to spend the night staring at me?"

Irene laughs. "I'll switch off the lamp."

She does, and after a moment, Sherlock slides down the bed beside her, settling in to the pillows. Irene stares up into the darkness for a while, before saying.

"You didn't ask me. About Thursday afternoon. Why I couldn't make it."

"You wouldn't have told me. Obviously."

"Ah," Irene thinks about this for a while. "Thank you."

Beside her Irene hears Sherlock let out a drawn out long breath. She closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art from the fabulous **frogsfortea**! [_Bedfellows_](http://frogsfortea.deviantart.com/gallery/)


	7. Masks

Irene has always disliked museums. The presence of all those lifeless locked up objects, the blank endless walls, the hushed tones of visitors, the staleness of the air – it all makes her feel suffocated, makes her skin prickle with nervous frustration. She finds herself wanting to cause some kind of havoc, to break the silence by whooping or shouting, running around, breaking something – she needs to _misbehave_ , somehow.

_Now is not the time. Concentrate, Irene._

Irene moves casually across the entrance hall, stopping to pick a guidebook off a stand, leafing through it. Carefully she scopes out the open plan café opposite. Her instructions, delivered by text an hour before had been terse _British Museum cafe. ASAP._ Presumably, the famous Fiona had decided to meet her here. In this unnervingly open echoing room. There is a balcony above, easy for a sniper to hide. But it's too public a place for an assassination, surely? Irene takes deep breaths, tries to slow her heart rate. _Look around you. Observe._

It's a weekday, so there aren't many people in the café. A Japanese couple, with a toddler in a pram. A couple of old ladies chatting. A young man, hunched over a sketchbook. Irene leans back as a long crocodile of school children trail past, looking as if they are enjoying themselves about as much as Irene is. Why of all places did it have to be a sodding museum?

"Miss Adler, I presume?" A clear voice rings out behind her, and Irene whirls around to be confronted by a pair of amused green eyes.

A tall woman, younger then Irene would have expected from her voice, wearing a nondescript brown suit, mouse coloured hair pulled back in a bun.

"You must be Fiona."

"Quite right. Shall we take a seat?" The woman gestures to the café area and Irene nods, following her.

"Drink?"

Irene orders a cappuccino and Fiona pays for it, along with a mineral water for herself. Irene watches her narrowly as she does it. If Sherlock were here he would have picked up a dozen pieces of information from the way she wore her jacket, and the crumbs on her sleeve. Irene, on the other hand, flatters herself that she is usually fairly good judge of personality, even without the ability to deduce a person's credit history with a single look.

Fiona is rather a puzzle, at first viewing. She moves confidently enough, but without projecting much of a presence. She is the kind of person, Irene thinks, that one looks at and immediately forgets. Quiet, competent – dull? Irene smiles to herself. She worked for Moriarty. Probably not. Her suit is expensively made, but not remotely flattering – it is almost as if it was designed to hide her figure rather than enhance it. Anyone with an eye for these things could infer that there must be a rather stunning pair of legs hidden under that shapeless skirt. And the hair, scraped back like that, does the shape of her face no favours. Why is this woman deliberately trying to deflect attention away from herself?

"So." Fiona pouring her mineral water into a plastic cup. "You're looking rather better than our information indicated." She smiles at Irene.

"Yes, I, er, had to lie low for a while." Irene takes a sip of her cappuccino. Too hot. She forces herself not to wince.

"It isn't often someone manages to successfully pull the wool over our eyes." Fiona said softly. "Do you mind my asking how you did it?"

"I'd prefer to keep that one to myself for now." Irene smiles.

Fiona tilts her head, considering. "Very well." There is a pause. "You said you had information for us."

"That's right." Irene pulls a file out of her bag. "Recent activities of one Peter Bridges, District Commissioner of Scotland Yard. Photos, too."

"Incriminating photos?"

"Enough to cost him his job, if released. Possibly his freedom too."

"Interesting. You're certain?"

"Completely."

"And you came across this how?"

"I have my sources. Friends from my old line of work."

"I see." Fiona holds out her hand for the file.

Irene keeps a hold of it. "I want three grand for it."

Fiona raises her eyebrows a fraction, but doesn't argue. "Very well."

She takes a chequebook out of her bag and scribbles a signature. She holds it out to Irene, but then pauses, blinking at Irene thoughtfully. "You didn't come here just for this."

"No." Irene agrees.

"What then?"

Irene licks her lips. This is it.

"I'm bored with my life as it is. And I'm in need of some cash."

Fiona's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "You're looking for a job."

"I'm rather talented, as you might have noticed." Irene gestures to the file. "I'll do anything you ask of me, if you pay me well enough."

"We don't have a lot of freelance work going on at the moment." Fiona says. "But perhaps – " she stops and considers. "I'll need to discuss this with my superiors. We'll be in contact. I can reach you on the same number?"

"Of course."

"Well. It was lovely too meet you in person at last, Miss Adler." Fiona rises to go.

"The pleasure was all mine." Irene responds, and holds out her hand. She sees the woman hesitate fractionally before taking it. Her hand feels dry and cool in Irene's.

"You'll be hearing from us."

"I hope so."

Irene smiles as she watched Fiona turn and walk out of the museum, low heels sounding like drumbeats echoing across the endless white hall.

Irene hates the tube. A crowd swarms around her at the barrier, buffeting and elbowing their way past. She should have used some of their ill gotten gains and taken a cab. As she heads over to the next platform one of her fellow passengers knocks into her and knocks her handbag onto the floor.

"Oh, gawd, I am sorry." A boy – obviously a tourist, clad in a Hard Rock Café T shirt and colourful shorts, bends over to pick her bag up.

"Don't worry about it." Irene reaches out to take the bag back from him, but the boy hangs on to it.

"I say, do you think you could help me, Mia'am? Only I'm kinda lost here, I've never been in London before. I wanna get to Buckingham Palace, do ya know which tube stop that is?"

Irene is about to snap at the boy and snatch back her bag from him when a flicker in his blue eyes makes her pause. She cocks her head to one side, and looks at him, hard.

"Are you _serious_?"

Sherlock grins at her and pulls out a map, which he unfolds in front of them, blocking them from the view.

"You've gone blonde." Irene hisses.

"Like it?"

She shakes her head at him in amazement. "Is this necessary?"

"Yes. We're moving. I've booked us a room, Devine's Hotel. The key is in the inner pocket of your handbag."

"Of course it is."

"You'll need to get the central line, get off at Angel. It's on Laughton Street"

Sherlock takes a step back, readopting the American accent.

"So eastbound on the Bakerloo line ? Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome." Irene smiles, and Sherlock bounds away without a backward glance, looking every inch the naive gap year student

It will look suspicious if she stares after him.

She goes up the escalator and finds the correct platform to take her to the hotel.

Once she is above ground again, and on her way to the hotel, her phone bleeps at her. She has received a text from the same unknown number as before. Just one line. _How do you feel about internet dating?_

Irene frowns at this but fires back a response pretty quickly. _I told you I was up for anything._

Fiona replies swiftly. _Good. Check your email._

The hotel Sherlock has booked seems inexpensive but tasteful. No Holmes would be seen dead in a Holiday Inn, she supposes. He appears to have booked one of the better rooms in the place, a large double bed smothered in a creamy duvet, a drinks bar and – god, is that a hot tub. It is probably more than can be afforded on a tight budget and if it was any other man Irene would think Sherlock was trying to impress her.

Irene sighs, shakes out her hair, and decides to take a shower.

When she gets out Sherlock is sitting on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, face lit by the blue glow of a laptop screen.

"She's a veterinary student." He says by way of greeting. He isn't in the American tourist disguise any more. Instead he is wearing a grey suit, with a pink shirt, and his hair is parted to the side.

"Who is?"

"Your mark." Sherlock flips the laptop screen so she can see. His eyes flicker slightly as he looks at her, still damp from the shower and dressed in a towel, but he says nothing. Irene looks at it. Sherlock is in her email account (naturally) and has opened up one claiming to be from 'Janus Enterprises'.

Dear Irene,

Further to our conversation I have taken the liberty of creating an account for you on Cupid's Arrow Dating Site. Your username is "LookingforLove" and the password is "Mr Natural".

I suggest that you take a look at this young woman. Our client is extremely keen that she should make friends with the right sort of person. Your task is to meet her and gain her trust. Further instructions will follow.

There is a link at the bottom of the email – Sherlock has opened it in a new tab. Irene clicks it, and it opens up the profile of a young woman. A smiling girl with strawberry blonde hair and large blue eyes, who according to her profile likes Disney movies, hill walking and tennis.

"How can you tell she's a veterinary student?"

"Obvious. Look at her collar. Given her age I'd say she's in her final year. She volunteers at an animal shelter in her spare time. She lives at home, has plenty of casual friends but finds romantic relationships challenging. Has had one serious girlfriend in the past but they broke up over a year ago."

Irene doesn't bother to ask how he knows all this. "And Fiona wants me to date her. Why?"

Sherlock shrugs. "We'll have to figure that out. I need to look into the background of this Cupid Site."

"You think Moriarty was running a dating agency?"

"I think there is no depth of evil to which that man would not stoop." Sherlock shoots her a quick sideways smile which should in no way cause her to feel butterflies in the pit of her stomach. He takes the laptop back and begins rattling away at the keyboard. Irene heads back into the bathroom to blow dry her hair.

"I don't suppose you thought to bring any of my clothes up with you?"

"In the wardrobe."

Irene looks. There is a bag at the bottom rather untidily stuffed with a selection of Irene's clothes – including she notices with a smile, her blue evening dress.

"What are we doing for dinner. Room service?"

"Hmmm? No. Hotel restaurant."

"Bit public, isn't it?"

"Exactly. Nothing like hiding in plain sight." Sherlock shoots her a glance.

"You didn't want me to go back to Worthing," Irene says "because you thought I might be followed. And then they might find too much out."

"They could find out that a man answering my description has been staying at your flat, yes. I was discreet but you never know what the neighbours might have noticed."

"Whereas here – "

"Here, we can control our appearances. Show them only what we want them to see. I am Hector Billingsworth, I own a small financial consultancy, have a flat in the city and but prefer to stay in a hotel and conduct an affair with a beautiful ex dominatrix. Look." Sherlock reaches onto the bedside table beside him and pulls out a thin strip of hair, which he affixes to his upper lip.

"What if they recognise you?"

"They won't. I have constructed Hector very carefully. His paperwork all checks out. There's a trail going back years."

"You have spent years constructing an alternate identity?"

"More than one. And you can talk. How long did it take you to construct 'Irene Adler'?"

Irene freezes. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. That isn't your real name."

There is a pause. Irene looks at Sherlock, and he looks back over the top of the laptop, eyes narrowed. She swallows.

"I changed it when I was seventeen." Irene says, at last. "By deed poll."

"Interesting." Sherlock tilts his head. He is puts the laptop to one side, steeples his fingers under his chin. "Most sex workers use a false name to protect themselves, or to avoid shame or censure. You did the opposite. You aren't at all ashamed to be Irene Adler but you _are_ ashamed of what went before it."

"Not ashamed." Irene snaps. "I've never been ashamed of anything in my life."

There is a silence. Sherlock's eyes travel over her face intently, and for a moment, he thinks he is going to say something, but he only shrugs, goes back to the laptop.

"All right. Dinner at eight?"

"Smashing."

Irene pulls out her least crumpled dress and begins to get ready. It proves to be a rather more difficult task than usual. Her hands are still shaking with anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So it turns out I can't even *write* with an American accent. Apologies to my US readers


	8. Deerstalker

The hotel restaurant is so dimly lit they have to squint to see their food. The candle between them flickers, making the shadows dance over Sherlock's face as Irene recounts her meeting with Fiona. He interrupts her frequently, irritated that Irene was not able to discern the precise material of her tights, or remember whether her shirt cuffs were buttoned. He has long since given up picking at his salmon en croute but has picked up a fork and is making occasional forays into Irene's spaghetti marinara.

"You know, in some cultures, that would be considered rude." Irene points out, as Sherlock picks out one of her prawns with his fork, only to examine it severely by the light of the candle.

"Nonsense." Sherlock experimentally singes the prawn in the candle flame. "Our cover is that we are couple: couples share food all the time. It's an expression of sentiment."

"You aren't sharing my food, you're torturing it. What did that prawn ever do to you?"

"The chef is having an affair - with his adult stepdaughter." Sherlock squints down at the small shellfish. "I _hope_ that's a stepdaughter."

"You're doing it wrong." Irene informs him.

Sherlock looks up at her, eyebrows raised. "Doing what wrong?"

"The romantic gesture."

Irene twists a piece of spaghetti expertly on her fork, and reaches out with one hand to touch Sherlock's face, brushing the corner of his mouth with her thumb. Sherlock stills, glancing down at her hand and then up again.

"Open wide, darling."

She pops the spaghetti in his mouth. Sherlock swallows reflexively and Irene takes a moment to run her finger thumb back and forth across that plump lower lip before dropping her hand. Sherlock takes a swig of water, coughs slightly, and puts the glass down unnecessarily hard. His cheeks are faintly pink. He glares at her.

"Well. I bow to your expertise."

"Glad to hear it." Irene smiles at him, and then leans forward, dropping her voice. "In all seriousness, that man by the bar seems to be watching us. You might want to the science nerd act."

Sherlock angles his fork slightly, so that it catches the reflection of the bar behind. Then his shoulders straighten slightly, and he reaches out to grab Irene's hand. "You're quite right," he smiles. "Darling. Shall we order desert?"

***

One of the major disadvantages of living in a hotel is that when Sherlock gets up at ridiculous hours of the morning to pace and mutter and tap away on his laptop, he isn't able to do so in another room. After three nights of being woken at three hour intervals Irene has quite made up her mind, she is going to murder Sherlock Holmes. She is just weighing up possible methods, and has settled upon beating him over the head with his own laptop (not exactly elegant, but satisfying) when Sherlock gets to feet, a rapt look on his face, and declares "Clapham Junction."

He is in his jacket and whirling out of the hotel room right away. Irene sighs and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. It obviously hasn't occurred to Sherlock that Irene might need her beauty sleep. She has arranged to meet her mark today.

They've been exchanging messages for the past few days. Irene has learned that her mark's name is Sara and that she is indeed a veterinary student in her final year at the University of London. They've arranged to meet in a Starbucks near Notting Hill.

Irene wrinkles her nose as she enters, the familiar smell of stale coffee mixed with cleaning fluid greeting her like a slap in the face. It isn't the kind of place she'd frequented when she'd had the choice. Irene likes little patisseries, the kind of place that served meltingly delicate French pastries and strong coffee in tiny china cups. Not coffee flavoured water in a mug the size of an elephants foot and muffins that that looked like you could go bowling with them.

"Angela?" A young woman in jeans and a jumper her friends had obviously told her was flattering, approaches her tentatively. "It's Sara. I - I got us one of the comfy chairs."

"How lovely." Irene smiles as warmly as she can manage, and her date blinks at her dazedly.

"I'll get us some drinks."

"Thank you." Irene tries to look pleased as what looks like a pint bucket of frothed milk is placed in front of her.

"Everyone told me you couldn't trust the photos on dating sites. But you're even prettier in person." Sara smiles at her, and then blushes. "Sorry, that was lame."

"Oh! No," Irene smiles, and lowers her lashes shyly. She wishes she could blush. It is one of those things she just can't fake. "I was actually thinking the same thing about you."

The girl dimples at this, and takes an enthusiastic mouthful of her whipped cream confection. Irene sips her cappuccino gingerly.

"Do you live near here?" she asks.

"Yeah, my parents have a house just round the corner from here."

"It's hard to find a flat in London with a manageable rent." Irene says sympathetically.

"Yes – well, it isn't just that. Mother isn't very well, and she likes having me around, you know?" Sara fidgets with the corner of her napkin. "What about you?"

"Oh, I have a little flat in Hampstead."

"Sounds nice." There is a slightly wistful tone to Sara's voice.

"Yes though – it can get a little lonely." Irene senses that Sara is the kind of girl that responds to vulnerable. The caring type, always looking out for the next sick puppy to be nursed back to health. If Irene can toe the correct line between needy and mysterious she's pretty certain she can get Sara to serve her up her heart on a plate. All the better to hand it over to the fine fellows at Janus Enterprises.

_Here we go._

***

"We have to find out who employed you." Sherlock tells her later. They have walked out to the little park behind the back of the hotel, and are sitting on the bench. Its chilly – Sherlock has his suit jacket wrapped tight around him (he must be missing his coat) but Irene is glad to be outside. She was beginning to develop cabin fever stuck in that hotel room. "Someone is invested enough in this rather pedestrian young woman's sex life to employ a criminal gang to disrupt it. Now, who would do that?"

"Maybe an ex?" Irene suggests dubiously. "Someone who wants her for herself?"

"Hmmm. Perhaps." Sherlock sighs. "I wouldn't have expected Moriarty to involve himself in something so trivial."

"New management, I suppose."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, this operation has been going on a while. I've been looking the history of the Cupid's Arrow website. Statistically its success rate is comparable to those of similar agencies, when one analyses message boards one does find a larger than usual number of anecdotal accounts of clients who believe they have discovered the love of their lives only to have things unaccountably fall apart on them."

"A relationship destroying service. Ingenious, really."

"Hardly original." Sherlock snaps. "I can't imagine Moriarty had much to do with this project, it must have been supervised by someone else. We need to find out who they are, and the best way to do that – "

"Is to find who's setting up Sara." Irene sighs. "Don't worry, I'm on it."

***

She emails Sara, arranging dinner at a restaurant near the site of their first date. It is a generic Italian bistro, the sort of place she is sure Sara will find romantic. She orders wine and sips at it idly as she waits. Sara finds her soon after, flushed and smiling.

"I'm sorry I'm late. There was a situation with a pregnant Chihuahua." She slides into her chair and looks around her brightly, as Irene pours her wine. "I haven't been here before – it's lovely. Very romantic."

Oh, how predictable. Irene restrains a sigh. Sara chatters on for a while telling anecdotes about dissection lab antics, mentally unbalanced lab partners, inappropriate uses of goats spleen, that sort of thing. She isn't uninteresting, Irene thinks, although a larger than necessary portion of her conversation seems to revolve around all things cute and fluffy. Irene has never been a pet person. She'd once had a client who brought her lap dog along to one of their sessions. The yappy little thing had taken rather an exception to Irene tying its owner to her bedstead and had ruined a set of silk sheets and badly mauled her favourite riding crop before it could be caught and appeased. Needless to say the client had been blacklisted.

Of course, these aren't the kind of stories she can tell Sara. Instead she talks for a while about her fictional employment at an art dealership, her interest in theatre, past holidays.

As dessert arrives Irene decides to steer the conversation towards deeper waters.

"My last girlfriend used to adore tiramisu." Irene cheekily swipes a spoonful of Sara's desert. "I'm sorry. I know it's terrible form to talk about one's exes."

"No, no," Sara waves her hand. "I expect you've had a lot of admirers in your time." She is looking at Irene with starry eyes.

"Oh, not really. What about you? I would have thought there would be girls queuing up for someone like you – so pretty and a vet as well…"

Sara blushed. "I'm not a vet yet! And, well, not really. There was one girl – a medic. We used to share lectures – that's how we met" Sara's eyes are far away. "It didn't end well, though."

"Oh," said Irene. "I sympathise. I've had my share of messy break ups. My first girlfriend was the jealous type. I had to move away, block all her numbers, just to get away from her."

"Oh," Sara looks at her in wide eyed sympathy. "That sounds awful. Well, thankfully I've never had anything like that."

"What did happen?" Irene prompts, and refills the girl's wine glass.

"Oh. Well, she had a problem with my parents – or, they had a problem with her, really. There was a lot of tension, right from when they were first introduced. In the end Maddy said I had to chose who I was going to put first, them or her and, well – they are my parents, you know?"

Irene presses her hand gently. "She shouldn't have made you chose."

Sara sighs. "Perhaps not. Anyway, it was a long time ago now."

Irene studies her for a moment. "Are your parents all right with you dating other women?"

"Well," Sara fiddles with her napkin. "I think so. I came out when I was sixteen or so, they seemed perfectly accepting. But then, with Madeleine…"

"Sometimes its easier to accept a thing in theory than it is when presented with the reality of the situation."

Sara sighs. "Yeah, that might have been it…. I think they're coming round now. My stepfather even helped me set up my dating site profile!"

"Oh?"

"Yes, well, he works in IT, so I guess he knows about these things. He looked into the website, made sure it was all legit."

"Aren't you lucky?" Irene smiles broadly at her.

"What about you? Are your family OK with you being gay?"

Irene has been expecting the question, and calculated her answer quite carefully. She glances away, face tightening as if with pain.

"I haven't seen any of them since they threw me out – I was sixteen."

Sara makes an appalled noise, squeezes Irene's hand.

"I can't imagine – what did you do?"

"I moved in with my girlfriend – she was older than me, you know, had mental health issues… it ended up going rather badly, as I said. But, I managed in the end. Found myself a job, a flat of my own." A story that holds a little bit of truth mixed in with the lies is easier to remember. And it is exactly the kind of tale that will win Sara over. Stimulate those latent protective instincts.

"Oh, Angela. I think you're so strong." Sara's eyes actually have tears in them. This is going to be so very easy.

***

 

"It's the stepfather." She informs Sherlock crisply when she gets home. "Possibly the mother too, but he was the one who set up on CADS."

Sherlock nods curtly. "I suspected as much. Look at this." He tosses her a pile of paper. _The Last Will and Testament of Richard Sutherland_ , Irene reads.

"Left all his money to his daughter in a trust fund, under rather peculiar conditions – she only gains access once she leaves home."

"Ah."

"Until then the money is in the control of the mother."

"And the stepfather. So… They want to stop her falling in love and leaving?"

"It would seem so."

"God." And Irene had thought her own parents had been cold.

"I would like you to arrange to meet them. Find out everything you can about them, business connections, friends… we need to know who put this idea in their head."

Irene nods. "Right."

***

 

It takes quite a bit of manoeuvring to get Sara to invite Irene into her home. Irene has to resort to some pretty unsubtle emotional manipulation, before the girl relents and extends an invitation to dinner. Sara's home turn out to be a large and airy looking townhouse in Bayswater, the neat front garden and cream fronted house beautifully maintained. It must cost a pretty packet to keep up, Irene thinks. No wonder they want to keep hold of Sara's cash.

Amelia Hamilton (nee Sutherland) greets her cordially at the door.

"My dear. We've heard so much about you." She kisses the air in the general vicinity of Irene's cheeks. Irene tries not to cough at the flooding scent of ill chosen perfume and stale gin.

"Angela." Sara rushes down the stairs. She's wearing an evening dress, short, black, ill fitted. She hugs Irene awkwardly, clearly nervous.

She meets the stepfather, Reggie Hamilton, in the living room. He is rather younger than his wife, and wearing a very ugly blazer and pink shirt. He greets Irene with unveiled amusement.

"Pleasure to meet you. So glad to see Sara has found a nice girl, at last." His eyes flash conspiratorially. This, without a doubt, is the man who has employed her.

Irene is handed a drink and the group talk for a while about inconsequential things. Reggie is an entrepreneur, he tells her, setting up his own 'rather successful' IT company. Irene knows an empty boast when she sees one, and strongly suspects that Reggie's failing business is being subsidised by Sara's trust fund. Amelia talks languidly about the decorating she has had done in the dining room, and the wonder of pilates. Sara is quiet, but stands close to Irene as if enjoying the warmth of her at her side.

Eventually Sara and her mother leave the room to set up dinner, and Irene is left with the stepfather. He grins at her knowingly.

"I must say, I'm impressed. I was told you people were good but I didn't think they'd send such a looker."

Irene smiles at him winningly. "Well. We aim to give satisfaction."

"I'll bet you do." He leers at her. Irene adjusts her posture slightly, into a more seductive pose, running her finger over her rim of her cocktail glass casually.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you. When Sara told me about you I was sure you were the person behind my employment." She flicks her eyes over Reggie's body. "I was sure you would be interesting."

"More interesting than little Sara, eh? Well, she's a nice little girl, but a woman like _you_. Well, you must get bored." He is looking at her mouth now, running his tongue across his bottom lip.

"I enjoy what I do." Irene moves a step closer. "It doesn't mean I don't enjoy a diversion now and again."

Reggie's face sharpens, predatorily. "Perhaps we can meet for a drink sometime, when this is over?"

Irene laughs softly. "Perhaps."

She looks closely at the man, assessing. Pupils are dilated, pulse sped up, brain pleasantly hormone and alcohol fogged. Time to go for the jugular.

"I'm curious, Reggie. Who was it recommended our services to you? You don't seem the kind of man to be involved in such disreputable circles."

"Oh, I'm very reputable. But I know the advantage of having disreputable friends."

Irene smiles knowingly.

"It was my business partner, Alistair Baines. Think he'd done some work with you in the past. Selling trade secrets, that sort of thing."

Irene surreptitiously takes out her phone, and begins texting Sherlock behind her back.

"But let's not talk business. Why don't you tell me what you've been up to with my little stepdaughter. Is she as vanilla as she seems?"

Thankfully there is a clatter of footsteps from outside the hall and Sara pokes her head around the door.

"Ready for dinner?" she smiles

 

***

Dinner is a dull affair remarkable only for the blandness of the food and the tedium of the conversation. Reggie has rather too much to drink and rambles on expansively about his business models, favouring both Irene and Sara with some distinctly unfatherly leering. Irene is amazed that Sara puts up with this - but then people can be extraordinarily blind when it comes to their loved ones.

After dinner Sara walks her to the tube station. The tension engendered by the dinner released Sara is euphoric, giggling and clutching at Irene's arm as they walk.

"I can't believe they actually liked you."

"I'm very likable." Irene smiles at her.

"Oh, I know." Sara looks at her with pure adoration in her eyes. "I don't know what someone like you is doing with me."

"Don't put yourself down." For some reason the words come out more harshly than Irene intended, and she forces herself to soften them with a smile. "I'm the lucky one."

They have reached the entrance to the tube and Irene stops, lifting a hand to stroke back the hair from Sara's face. Sara goes still, eyes wide and hopeful. Irene leans forward and presses a kiss to the girl's mouth. Hand's tighten on Irene's arms and pulling her in, damp mouth moving under hers. What Sara lacks in finesse she makes up for with enthusiasm, by the time they part Sara's lipstick is thoroughly smudged. Irene giggles, and hands her a face wipe from her purse.

"I'll see you soon?"

"Of course." Sara says breathlessly, and Irene smiles at her over her shoulder as she walks away.

***

"Going well is it?" Fiona falls into step with her as she rounds the corner into Laughton street.

"Are you following me?" Irene raises her eyebrows at her.

"There are CCTV cameras everywhere. I hardly need to follow you."

"But you are. You sent a man into my hotel. He was watching my boyfriend and I have dinner."

Fiona smiles. "You don't miss much, do you? All right, yes, we followed you. Bit of a surprise to see you with a man like that. I didn't think that was your type. Actually, I didn't think _men_ were your type."

"Well, Hector has money. A girl's got to eat, after all."

"Yes, I suppose you do. Well, I admire your taste. Rather a dish, isn't he? And I don't usually go for blondes."

Irene looks at her sideways. She isn't sure she likes Fiona questioning her over "Hector" – but Fiona doesn't seem suspicious, merely smiling up at the sky as if she and it were sharing a particular secret.

"I have some more instructions for you."

"Let me guess. You want me to get Sara to commit to a relationship with me, and then abruptly break it off."

"Close. I want you to get the girl to agree to move in with you. Make her promise eternal fidelity, say if anything happens you want her to wait for you. Then I'll arrange for you to disappear."

Irene digests this, frowning.

"We've only known each other for two weeks. You think I can prevent her from pursuing another relationship? Ever?"

Fiona shrugs. "It's a possibility. All our information suggests she is a woman with a romantic disposition."

Irene blows out her breath through her nose. "You're the boss." They've reached the entrance to the hotel. "I'd invite you in for a drink, but –"

"You have a dinner engagement." Fiona smiles at her. "Go in. I believe he's waiting for you. Keep me updated."

"I will."

Irene watches Fiona walk away, brisk in her unflattering shoes. Irene walks up the steps into the hotel slowly.

***

 

Since Irene has already eaten, and Sherlock is never hungry anyway, they skip dinner for a drink at the hotel bar. Irene can't seem to summon up much enthusiasm for her daiquiri, picking out mint leaves and shredding them onto her napkin instead.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at her questioningly. "Problem?"

"No." Irene flicks at the leaves.

"You've done extremely well tonight. I've already mapped out a large portion of an industrial espionage ring with your information, and I'm confident that I can find out more."

"Smashing."

"I would have thought you'd be enjoying your victories."

Irene is silent.

"But you aren't. I'd have thought this would be refreshingly familiar to you. Manipulating people, bargaining sex…"

"It's child's play." Irene snaps.

Sherlock blinks at her. "And… that bothers you?" He looks thoughtful. " This Sutherland girl is too naïve - too easily manipulated. You are hankering for a more challenging mission?"

"How would you enjoy it if someone employed you to look for a lost cat?" Irene asks. "I'm better than this."

Sherlock pulls a disdainful face. "Your work and mine are rather different."

Irene laughs shortly. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?" She takes a gulp of her daiquiri, turns away angrily. "But you know what, Sherlock? I like what I do just as much as you do, and I am just as good at it. People are – they're puzzles. Everyone unlocks a different way, and once you figure out how they fit, what they like you can do anything with them. There isn't any game like it. And seduction is a game, always. With some people it feels like playing chess, with others its more like Russian Roulette. But its always interesting, always a challenge…."

Irene trails off, no longer entirely sure why she is telling Sherlock this. When she looks over at him she and is surprised to see him leaning forward, a look of intense focus on his face. When she meets his eyes, however, he looks away, sitting back against the bar sofa, expression wiped clean, looking for all the world like carved marble. Whatever he was thinking he isn't going to express it.

"So. I take it Miss Sutherland presents you with too simple a puzzle, then?" he says at last.

Irene sighs "You could say that." She flicks at her cocktail umbrella. "This feels less like playing chess and more like telling Bambi that you're going for a walk in the woods and then shooting him in the head."

Sherlock takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. "I need you to go through with this Irene. We both do."

"I know." says Irene. "I will."

 

***

 

"Isn't this beautiful?"

Irene and Sara are standing at the peak of one of the more sheep infested hills in Sussex, looking down at the shadows chasing sun each other over the green fields below. It isn't exactly Irene's idea of fun, but a weekend away together seemed the quickest way to move the relationship forward (and hopefully end this bloody stupid con).

"Not as beautiful as you." Irene says, as seductively as she can manage while the wind is whipping her hair into her eyes. Is it too obvious a line? She wonders. No. With Sara nothing is ever too obvious a line.

"Shall we head back to the B & B soon?" Sara asks shyly, moving a step closer. Irene looks at her. Sara's face is flushed pink with the wind, her copper coloured hair shining in the afternoon sun. She reminds Irene uncomfortably of Kate.

She forces herself to smile. "I'd love to."

***

Looking down at the patchwork bedspread in their rooms, Irene doesn't feel any better. In fact she feels a great deal worse. Sara is behind her, pressing her hands into her sides, kissing her neck.

"Do you - do you want to…"

"Yes – give me a moment, will you?" Irene says, and heads to the bathroom.

She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, frowning. Her eyes are reddened by the wind, hair rough and tangled. There is a spot of mud on the shoulder of her shirt. Who is this woman?

Irene has lied before, betrayed people before, she's risked other people's lives for her own gain. And she's always, always been able to turn this feeling off. Everyone looks out for themselves in this mad old world, whatever they may tell themselves and Irene Adler is too damn good to let guilt get in her way. So, why does she feel so unable to face what is waiting for her on the other side of the door?

Without thinking she pulls a phone out of her pocket, dials. Sherlock picks up on the second ring.

"Irene?"

"Sherlock." She doesn't have the faintest idea of what to say.

"Is there a problem?"

"No." The rim of the sink presses against her waist, the cold enamel making her shiver. She can feel him at the other end of the line, frowning, waiting for her to continue. "I don't like this, Sherlock."

There is a long silence at the other end of the phone. Irene waits for his reaction, for the inevitable taunting. Scruples, Irene, really? This late in the game? Are you losing your touch?

I might just be, at that….

"I - don't like it either." Sherlock says at last, his voice low. "I haven't operated on this side of the law before. I suppose I am less like Moriarty than I previously thought."

"You look better in a hat." Irene jokes feebly. There is another long silence.

"Do you want me to stay on the line?" Sherlock sounds unsure.

"No." Irene bites her lip, pulls her shoulder straight. "No, I can do this."

She hangs up.

***

Later, when they are lying in bed together, Irene suggests that Sara move in with her. Sara looks at her wide eyed.

"It isn't too soon, is it? We haven't known each other long…" Irene asks, tentatively.

"No, no. That would be… perfect." A smile breaks over Sara's face as she traces a finger over Irene's lips."I feel like I've loved you forever."

Irene takes a deep breath and smiles at her.

***

Sara's boxes are packed quickly, the moving van ordered. The young woman is brimming with excitement, full of the new life she will lead with "Angela". Irene is counting down the moments when she won't have to look into that ridiculously hopeful young face again.

"I love you, Sara." She reiterates the point as they bring the last on Sara's boxes down into the hall.

"I know." Sara beams at her. Then her smile falters. "What's wrong? You look serious."

"We're going to be so happy together." Irene promises. "I know we are – but…"

"What is it?"

"Can you promise me something, Love? If anything should happen to me… you will still be there for me, won't you? If I weren't around for a while… you'd wait for me?"

"Of course." Sara looks at her frowning. "But you're scaring me. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all." Irene smiles at her. "A passing thought."

The doorbell rings. "Must be my taxi."

Irene has told Sara that she has arranged to go ahead, to make sure everything is ready. Sara will join her later with the moving van.

"See you soon." She gives Sara a quick peck on the lips.

Irene gets in the taxi, Sara watching her from the front garden. As Irene closes the door, she sees Sara's stepfather step come out, putting a hand on Sara's shoulder. As soon as she knows Sara's attention is distracted she slides over to the other side of the taxi, and quietly lets herself out the other door. She dashes across the street, pulling an umbrella out of her bag and opening it to hide her face.

She stops behind a tree to watch Sara waving energetically after the departing taxi. Irene takes a deep breath, turns and walks away. Sara will never see her again. It is done.

***

Later that night, after another round of cocktails (neither Irene nor Sherlock were in the mood for dinner) Irene lies awake, staring at the ceiling. By now Sara will probably have notified the police, told her 'Angela' has gone missing, that the flat Fiona hired to stand in as Irene's living quarters was empty and untouched. Perhaps they will have traced the cab driver, who will tell them that he didn't notice Irene wasn't in the car until he's reached his destination. By now, Sara's heart would be breaking, and the Hamilton's income would be secured for years to come.

Beside her, Sherlock clears his throat. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Mmmm?"

"Just out of curiousity," he pauses for such a long time Irene decides to prompt him

"Yes?"

"You tried to seduce me, when we were in Baker Street. Correct?"

"Couldn't you tell, O great Detective?"

Sherlock makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat.

"What sort of puzzle was I? What game did you think we were playing?"

"Ah." Irene considers. "You did rather play it like a game of poker. That face of yours, never giving anything away."

She can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "I am very good at poker."

"I think you'll find that I'm better." Irene turns on her side. She can see the edge of Sherlock's profile in the dark. "Interesting use of the past tense, by the way. Do you really think I've finished playing with you?"

Sherlock is silent for a long moment, and then Irene hears him turn in bed, mattress creaking beneath them. "Goodnight, Irene."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based in the ADC short story 'A Case of Identity'. Poor Miss Sutherland....


	9. Magpie's Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: This chapter contains some discussion of disabilities and various mental health conditions. Please bear in mind that the opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily my own :)

Irene wakes feeling unexpectedly warm. She turns to see Sherlock, face softened in sleep, one hand arm flung above his head. Irene shifts slightly to look at him and becomes aware of warm weight on her abdomen. Sherlock's hand on her resting on her stomach. Irene looks down at the long pale fingers stretched possessively over satiny fabric.

They haven't ever woken up together, like this. Sherlock has always gets into bed after her, keeping a small but distinct distance between their bodies. He must have moved closer to her in the night, unconsciously reached out to touch her. And now Irene can feel the heat from his body, his breath brushing her cheek. This is – dangerous.

She's had hook ups, once or twice over the past year - mostly out or boredom, to keep her hand in… and then there was Sara. But this feeling – this wanting that seems to fill her – stretching out of her body to fill the room with aching tension - this isn't just loneliness, isn't just the pleasure of an attractive body beside her. It isn't even the darker stirring of lust. Irene hasn't felt like this with anyone before. It makes her want to reach out, to touch him – just to touch him. To feel his skin against hers.

What a ridiculous sentiment for a grown woman.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

He looks at her for a moment, blinking, as if trying to account for her face on the pillow beside him. He looks down at his own hand, and frowns slightly. For a moment the blue eyes are thoughtful, as if trying to solve an equation in his head.

"Good morning." Irene's voice is a little huskier than she intended it to be. She makes herself smile, a wide uncaring smile, and moves her own hand onto Sherlock's keeping his hand in position. "Should I be reading into this?"

Sherlock's lips part "An involuntary–" he stops, frowning.

"Yes?" Irene prompts.

"I find," his voice is rough with sleep, almost a growl. "In spite of all of the available evidence, which indicates that you, Irene, are a predator, a terrorist, a pathological liar – there appears to be a subconscious part of me that wishes –"

"Yes?" Irene prompts, pitching her voice deliberately low.

His eyes move to her face, a clear questioning gaze. Then he turns to look up at the ceiling. "It isn't relevant."

"Isn't it?"

The distance between his mouth and her own is so very small. He owes her a kiss. She could ask him for it. His eyes flick down to her mouth briefly, and then back up at her face.

Fingers tighten on her belly, finger tips biting through the thin fabric before pulling away. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Are you meeting Fiona today?"

Irene tries to ignore the flood of cold disappointment in the pit of her stomach.

"National Gallery." She says. "The woman appears to have some kind of fetish for cultural institutions."

"Suggest the Science Museum next time. I believe the new exhibit on dark matter is worth viewing. Largely inaccurate of course, but.." Sherlock disappears into the bathroom without a backward glance.

"I'll bear it in mind." Irene says dryly.

 

 

She finds Fiona standing under the portrait of a sixteenth century nobleman, head tilted and a slight smile on her face as if she and the painting have some kind of understanding.

"It's a pity men don't dress that way anymore." Irene comments, glancing at the man's ruffled lace collar, puffed sleeves and copious jewellery.

"Yes, isn't it?" Fiona turns on her heel, smiles at Irene. "You did well."

"Of course." Irene raises her eyebrows at her.

"Well. And are you ready for your next job?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Fiona moves over to the cushioned seat in the middle of the gallery. She sits, ankles crossed, looking up at Irene expectantly. Irene moves slowly over to sit beside her.

Fiona takes a paper folder out of her bag and hands it to Irene. Irene opens it, and pulls out the first document - a photo woman standing under a tree. She has her arm around two young children: a little girl who looks up at the camera seriously, and a boy who is turning away from the camera, face blurred.

"Diana Musgrave." Fiona tells her. "Formerly a rather sticky fingered archivist at the British Museum. She 'just happened' to come into possession of a particularly valuable item – a jewelled coronet which originally belonged to the French Royal family, I believe. Being a practical minded woman she agreed to sell to the coronet to one of our agents. Unfortunately, it never arrived."

"She reneged on the deal?"

Fiona gently pulls another photo from the file and hands it to Irene. A smashed up car in a lay by off a motorway, with what looked like blood spattered on the cracked windscreen.

"Unfortunately Ms Musgrave met with an accident. It appears she promised the item not only to our organisation but also to one of our competitors. Said competitors appear to have been of an impulsive disposition. When they discovered Ms Musgrave was attempting to play them off against us, they decided that the most appropriate response would be to cut her brakes. Ms Musgrave was transported by ambulance to the Royal Alexandra hospital but pronounced dead on arrival. Which, unfortunately, means she isn't able to tell either us or our competitors where she hid the Coronet." Fiona wrinkles her nose, expressing disapproval at such a poorly thought out murder.

"That is a shame."

"Yes, isn't it? Particularly as we had already negotiated the objects sale to the tune of eight million pounds. And we are an organisation that likes to keep our promises." Fiona smiles blandly at her.

"So, you want me to retrieve the coronet?"

Fiona pulls out a third piece of paper from the file. It is a newspaper clipping from the Chiswick Gazette. Irene reads the title:

_WANTED – Part time Nanny / Au Pair_

She looks up at Fiona's face.

"You have to be joking."

"All the evidence suggests that Ms Musgrave hid the information about the coronet somewhere within her own house. This appears to be the most efficient way of accessing the home."

"I don't know anything about looking after children."

Fiona shrugs. "Hopefully it won't take you too long to locate the coronet. Just try and keep them alive until you have."

Irene scans the newssheet again. "It says one of these kids has special needs."

"I'm sure you can find a way to handle it." Fiona says dismissively. "Unless you'd rather I give the job to someone else?"

Irene takes a breath. "No." she says resignedly. "No, I'll do it."

"Excellent." Fiona says briskly. "I've taken the liberty of setting up an interview for you tomorrow at four. There's a CV and relevant documents in the file. Your interview has been arranged for tomorrow."

"Wonderful." Irene says heavily.

 

 

Irene usually knows exactly how to dress for every occasion but this particular occasion requires quite a bit of thought. What does one wear to a job interview for a Nanny position? Eventually she goes out and buys herself a colourful smock dress and leggings, which she matches with knee length flat soled boots. She pulls her hair into two chunky plaits and leaves her face free of make-up. She looks at herself in the mirror, dissatisfied. Earth mother really isn't her look.

"Remove the earrings." Sherlock says from the bed where has been observing her preparations with just a hint of amusement playing about his mouth "Individuals who work with young children avoid having dangling accessories, for obvious reasons."

"Right." Irene replaces the earrings with studs.

"Those boots look too new. Try scuffing them a little." He opens the drawer by the bed and throws her a clothes brush. Irene uses it to scratch away at the shiny leather toes of her shoes.

"I don't understand why they've chosen me for this." Irene complains. "It's obviously not my area of expertise."

Sherlock looks thoughtful. "I think they're testing your limits. Trying to figure out exactly what you're capable of."

Irene looks at him questioningly.

"Your first mission was an easy one, by your standards. It played exactly into your existing skill set. I imagine they could easily employ you in some similar arena, yet instead they chose to push you out of your comfort zone, and test both your acting skills and your ingenuity at the same time. "

"Because they don't trust me?"

"Or because they think you could be useful to them in some particular arena, and wish to test your mettle first."

Irene breathes out. "No pressure then."

Sherlock tilts his head sideways to smile at her. "Oh, none at all."

 

 

Alfred Musgrave is a thin, balding man with a weary expression. He listens half heartedly to Irene's enthusiastic speech about the joys of working with children, and flips through her CV without much expression of interest.

"You understand that I can't pay you a lot, Miss, er, Miss.."

"Hosmer." Irene supplies. "But call me Angela."

"Angela. Right. Money is tight, and I'm working all the hours God sends as it is." He runs a hand through his thinning hair.

"I am perfectly happy with the salary as discussed." Irene assures him.

"And of course my son has – difficulties. You've worked with - autistic children before?" Musgrave's lips tighten slightly at the corners. Clearly the son's disability is a sore spot.

"Yes," Irene says. "Working with children with special needs is so rewarding."

"Is it." Musgrave says flatly, as if he can't quite conceive of anyone holding such a view. "Well. Danny is a good boy, but he's in his own little world, you know?"

"Does he have any particular interests?" Irene asks. "Sometimes that can be a way to reach children…"

Musgrave looks away. "Computers, I think. I don't really know much about it. My wife handled most of - all that. I was busy. With work. You know." Irene watches his throat move as he swallows hard, blinking.

"I'm sure you did all you could." She says gently.

"She was a very good woman, you know. A wonderful mother. I'm afraid I really can't…" he breaks off, covering his mouth with his hand. Irene lays a hand on his knee, looks at him with wide sympathetic eyes. Musgrave takes a couple of deep breaths, clearly trying to calm himself, then he looks back at Irene.

"When can you start?"

 

 

Irene's first day of work begins unpleasantly early. Irene is woken by her alarm to look around the hotel room which looks grey and grimy in the dull wash of dawn light. The space beside her is empty, the sheets crumpled. Sherlock always appear to be gone when she wakes now - no doubt anxious to avoid a repeat of the morning Irene woke to find him holding her. Well. He couldn't ignore it forever – she would find a way to remind him.

Irene dresses quickly in her hideous nanny-clothes, and locates her oyster card. She is supposed to be at the Musgraves' house early enough to meet the children before they head out to school.

Irene arrives early, and takes a moment to assess the house before her before she enters. The Musgraves live on a rather pleasant leafy street in Chiswick. A narrow passageway from the street leads to a rather overgrown front garden, littered with abandoned toys. The paint on the windows is peeling, the house front streaked with grime. Irene knocks at the door.

There is a pause and a scrabbling sound and the front door swings open. Irene looks down into a pair of slightly hostile dark eyes.

"I suppose you must be the nanny." A small rather stocky girl of about twelve, wearing a navy blue school blazer, and a pronounced scowl.

"That's right." Irene holds out her hand to the girl (does one shake hands with children? She doesn't know). The girl takes her hand doubtfully. "I'm Angela. What's your name?"

"Eloise." She says shortly, and turns on her heel. Irene follows her into a narrow hallway and is led into the kitchen. This is one of the few rooms in the house on which some attention appears to have been lavished, well furnished and equipped, although Irene notices a tall pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

A fair haired little boy sits in the corner by the table, hunched over a laptop. A plate of food sits beside him untouched.

"That's Danny." Eloise says, with a note of defiance in her voice.

"Hello Danny." Irene says, with as much warmth as she can muster. The boy doesn't look up.

"He doesn't like strangers." From her tone, Irene infers that Eloise doesn't much like them either.

"Well, I hope I won't be a stranger to you both for very long." Irene smiles at her. "Is your father at home?"

"There was a crisis at the office. He had to leave early. He said to tell you, there are instructions here." Eloise points to a rather hefty binder placed in the middle of the table. "And this is your key."

"Thank you." Irene pockets the key.

"You need to take Danny to school after he's eaten. Danny, eat your breakfast. Come on. Or no computer."

The boy ignores his sister, until she slides over and tries to close the laptop. He makes a noise of protest holding it open.

"Only if you eat your breakfast, Danny. Come on."

The boy makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, but picks up a piece of toast with the tips of his fingers and takes a bite.

"Good boy!" Eloise's voice is full of a warmth Irene would not previously have imagined her capable of.

"I have to go and get my bus." Eloise says, with a hint of reluctance as she watches her brother finish up his meal. "Danny." She pulls the boy around by the shoulders so that he's looking at her. "Stay close to Angela when you are outside. No running."

"He doesn't usually." She explains to Angela. "But you need to keep an eye on him when you're on the street, in case there are cars."

"I'll remember that." Irene says faintly.

"I'll be back at four o clock." Eloise says, lingering at the door and looking at her brother.

"I'll take good care of him."

"Yeah," Eloise says. "Right. See you."

And swinging her school bag over her shoulder she departs.

 

 

Irene is left with the little boy, feeling distinctly unnerved. _Just keep them alive_ , indeed. Fiona hadn't said anything about small boys who were liable to run headlong into traffic at a moment notice.

She decides to look at the instruction manual. The first page is a timetable so exacting in its requirements that Irene wants to whistle. Every minute of Danny's day appears to be planned out in detail. She looks at the first set of instructions and then glances at the clock. Damn.

"Um, Danny." She says. "Danny," she repeats, trying to imitate Eloise's singsong tones. "We have to go to school now."

The boy twitches slightly, but still doesn't look at her. "Come on, get your coat and bag."

To her surprise the boy does as she says, pulling on a duffel coat and rucksack. He stands patiently by the door as she unlocks it and follows her docilely out into the street. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all.

"Hold my hand?" Irene asks, trying to reach out to the boy. He makes a whining noise and shrinks away from it but allows her to put a hand on his coat sleeve. Enough that she can grab him if he makes a bolt for freedom, Irene supposes. It is a twenty minute walk to Danny's school, and Danny is docile for most of the journey, walking beside Irene with his head tilted toward the ground and shoulders hunched. He walks awkwardly, half on tip toes, and doesn't appear to take much notice of his surroundings. As they turn on to the road that leads to the school, however, Danny appears to perk up slightly. He looks up suddenly and bursts into song.

" _Mary had a little lamb, a little lamb, a little lamb._ " He sings tunelessly and very loudly. A woman passing by with a briefcase gives Irene an odd look.

"Hush Danny." Irene mutters at the boy.

" _Beans, beans, they're good for your heart_

 _The more you eat the more you fart, hahaha_ "

Irene wonders if Danny actually understands what his saying – his delivery is mechanical, flat, utterly lacking in humour. Then again, perhaps that is part of the joke.

"Indoor voice please." Irene says half heartedly.

They have reached the school gates, which is a mercy. As soon as they pass into the playground Danny tugs himself free from her grasp and begins to run towards the far wall.

" _Looking for Mary, one two, thee. Where is she hiding? Under the tree?_ "

Irene watches as Danny begins to run his fingers into the cracks in the wall, apparently fascinated.

"You must be the new nanny." A middle aged woman in an violently orange cardigan, and a weary expression has appeared behind her.

"Um, yes."

"Cara Brown, Danny's classroom assistant."

"Ah," Irene looks at her carefully, sizing her up. A potential source of information about the family? "Have you worked with Danny for long?"

"Four years." Cara smiles fondly across the playground at the boy. "He's a sweet boy."

"Yes." Irene forces enthusiasm into her voice. "It's a pity about his mother."

Cara frowns. "It is. Diana was such a nice lady – doted on Danny. Of course she never quite accepted his condition, parents can't sometimes. Always researching, writing to doctors… Danny has been on every kind of treatment there is, and he does very well, in his way, but she was convinced there must be something more out there somewhere. She was always hoping for a cure. I'm afraid she got taken in a few times. There are some charlatans out there."

Irene makes a sympathetic noise. "And the father, was he always searching for a cure too?"

"Well," Cara wrinkles up her nose. "Between you and me, he's never been around much. Some men can't handle having a disabled kid. Hurts their pride." She sighs. "Anyway, I'd better get this one in to class. Let me know if you have any questions, won't you? I've been around the block a few times, can probably help you out."

"Thanks." Irene said warmly. "Bye Danny." She calls at the unresponsive child, before shooting Cara a smile and walking out of the playground. She checks her watch. According to the gigantic caring-for-Danny instruction manual she has about three hours before she has to go back to the school and pick Danny up for lunch. Time to start her search of the house.

 

 

Irene begins in the bedrooms. The main bedroom is oddly tidy, the covers pulled tight over the bed. Irene suspects that no one has slept there for a while. Sure enough there is a crumpled duvet on the sofa downstairs where Mr Musgrave has clearly been passing uncomfortable nights. The wardrobes seem to have nothing in them but clothes and Irene checks for false floors and cupboards. She goes through the papers in the desk but there is no evidence for much except Diana's increasingly desperate sounding correspondence with a number of medical specialists and a thick stack of unpaid bills. There is no mystery as to why Diana Musgrave needed money – she was in debt up to her eyeballs, most of it due to the endless treatments she had booked in for her son. Irene looked through the list of treatments strategies Danny had undergone – chellation therapy, nutritional analysis, spiritual healing…

This is getting her nowhere. Irene decides to move on to the other rooms.

Three hours later, Irene has turned half the house upside down but found nothing of any practical use. Frustrated, she heads out to pick up Danny from school. Apparently it is an unbreakable element of his routine that he take his lunch at home, so Irene spent a good half hour half heartedly trying to persuade the boy to eat some pasta before escorting him back to school.

Eloise returns early, at half past three, and looks around the kitchen suspiciously.

"You've been moving things."

"Tidying." Irene tries to sound cheery and engaging. After a morning of frustration and irritation, it doesn't come easily.

"It doesn't look very tidy." The girl says snottily, and helps herself to a glass of juice. She surveys Irene over the rim of her glass for a long moment, and then says abruptly. "I'll collect Danny from school." The unspoken _you'll only mess it up_ hangs in the air between then, but Irene can't bring herself to care. It will give her an extra half an hour to look around, at least.

In the end nothing much gets accomplished in her search and the children are back irritatingly quickly. Danny is in full on singing mode again.

" _Pick up the pieces,Twelve ten eight, There's a surprise under the gate._ "

The boy whirls into the kitchen, a wide smile on his face, and dashes over to his laptop. Sighing inwardly Irene puts biscuits on a plate and resigns herself to a long afternoon of babysitting.

 

 

Musgrave returns from work over an hour late, so Irene is late making it back to the hotel. She spends the underground ride swaying on her feet with tiredness, and when she reaches the hotel goes straight up to her room.

"No dinner out tonight." She informs Sherlock crisply, kicking off her shoes. "Room service."

He casts an eye over her critically.

"You didn't find it?"

"Not yet. And nothing to suggest who Diana's contacts in the criminal world were either."

Sherlock steeples his hands in thought. His eyes are still fixed on her, his mouth turning up very slightly at the corners.

"I take it nannying is not a fulfilling experience?"

"I don't know, maybe you should try it." Irene snaps.

Sherlock looks horrified at the thought.

"The boy threw a piece of spaghetti at you. It landed on your neck. You removed it, and the stain on your shirt but a small damp patch remains."

"You do know how to talk to a girl, Mr Holmes." Irene flops down beside him on the bed and begins flipping through the room service menu. "I'm not sure he threw it at me though. Just, in my general direction."

"Not malice aforethought then."

"I don't think he is aware enough of my existence to harbour any malice towards me."

"He's probably aware, just not interested." Sherlock says, and there is an edge to his voice that makes Irene look up.

"You're interested in the boy."

"Hardly."

"In his condition, then."

"Not at all. I'll have the chicken salad by the way, if you're ordering."

Irene rolls her eyes at him and picks up the phone.

 

 

They eat dinner on trays on the bed – Irene being too tired and Sherlock apparently too apathetic to move. Irene fills Sherlock in on the finer points of her search, including all the papers she has found. Sherlock only grunts noncommittally at the news, and then delivers a lecture on the finer points of house searches. Apparently he has written an article on his website on the most common household areas in which sensitive items are hidden. Irene has checked most of the places Sherlock mentions already, but lets him run on anyway. There is something pleasant about hearing that deep voice rumbling along, feeling the warmth of food in her stomach and soft pillows at her back….

Irene wakes to find Sherlock removing the tray from her lap. He pulls back when she turns to look at him his face oddly guilty.

"You were asleep." He explains.

"Oh." Irene can't think of the last time she drifted off like that, mid conversation. She notices that Sherlock has his coat on.

"I'm going out. I've left you a list of search ideas on the bedside table. Goodnight, Irene."

"Goodnight." Irene says, and slips back into sleep.

 

 

Sherlock's list is comprehensive, and Irene starts checking all the places he has suggested as soon as she returns to the house. Unfortunately several days of meticulous searching reveal absolutely nothing. Irene feels frustration prickle under her skin. She is also becoming aware that her searches have only added to the untidy state of the house, and that eventually Musgrave will notice that the woman he hired to aid his domestic comfort is leaving the place in a tip. Perhaps she can hire cleaners to come into the house. Although, better not. It would be embarrassing if they were to stumble across the very object that Irene has been comprehensively failing to find.

Irene has just put dinner on for the children (pasta again – her culinary repertoire isn't exactly vast) when she hears a key in the lock. For once, Musgrave is home from the office in time. He walks into the kitchen, dumping his suitcase on the chair and, ignoring Irene, heads straight for the fridge to pour himself a glass of wine.

"Daddy!" Eloise dashes into the kitchen, a smile on her face. It is the most childlike expression Irene has ever seen her wear.

Musgrave takes a deep gulp of wine before replying. "Hello, Ellie, dear." There is a long pause while he looks down at her shoes. "How was school?"

Eloise launches into a long narrative about her art teacher and a still life involving fruit, but Irene can tell that her father isn't really listening. Eloise obviously senses it too, because she trails off eventually looking uncertain.

"Are you hungry? I've made some pasta for the children, I can put some on for you as well." Irene interjects. Musgrave looks at her for the first time.

"Yes, thanks." There is a pause, as Eloise stares at her father and he fidgets with his tie.

"Have the children been all right?"

"Yes, very well behaved." Irene says warmly. Right on cue there is a loud squawk from the next room and Danny dashes into the kitchen, arms waving.

" _Looking for Mary One Two Three. Where is she hiding? Under the tree!_ "

"Careful Danny!" Irene cautions, as one flailing hand narrowly misses the pot of boiling water.

Danny rushes over to his father, and for a moment Irene thinks that he will offer him a hug. Instead, the younger boy reaches out and touches his father under the chin, delicately, with the very tip of his finger.

"All right, son." His father smiles weakly at him.

Danny grins and begins singing again.

" _Pick up the pieces, twelve, ten, eight…_."

"Jesus," Musgrave places his head in his hands. "Can't you keep him quiet?"

Irene is surprised and a little mortified by the strength of the urge she feels to chuck the pasta pan in the man's face.

"I'll take him." Eloise jumps up, face tense. "Come on, Danny, let's go play with your laptop, shall we?" She ushers the still singing boy out.

There is a long silence in the kitchen. Irene deems the pasta cooked, and begins to drain it. She watches the Musgrave patriarch out of the corner of her eye as she does so. She needs to ask the man something, and poor though his mood is, now is as good a time as any. She might be able to kill two birds with one stone and dig out some information for Sherlock.

Her long experience of men tells her that Musgrave will respond better if he has a plate of food in front of him first though. So she serves him first, and waits until he has begun eating to put forward her question.

"I was wondering," she says. "If I could have Thursday afternoon off."

Musgrave looks up at her, through a mouthful of pasta. "Why?"

"Hospital appointment," Irene says glibly. "I have to get a scan done."

Musgrave frowns deeply. "What about the children?"

"Isn't there anyone else who could watch them for the afternoon? A family friend or-"

Musgrave shakes his head. "No, there's no one."

"What about – surely your wife had friends, people she'd call on to help her with the kids?"

"Nothing of the kind. My wife and I were private people, we didn't barter our problems around."

"But surely – she must have had friends from work, neighbours, that sort of thing."

Musgrave shoots Irene a suspicious glance.

"I only ask because – well, I was wondering if there was anyone I could speak to for advice about Danny and everything – just some more background information about his condition. There really isn't anyone else your wife was close to?"

Musgrave grunts. "As far as I know she wasn't on the best terms with her work colleagues. But there was a support group she went to for a while. Seemed to think it helped. Name's pinned to the calendar somewhere. I doubt they'll help though."

"Right. Well, maybe Eloise can watch Danny after school, just for one evening? She's very good with him."

Musgrave shrugs disinterestedly. "Speak to her about it." He says flatly.

Irene represses at eye roll and leaves to call the children in for dinner.

 

 

 

"You've been to Worthing." Sherlock announces the moment Irene walks through the door.

"What?" Sherlock gestures at her, evidently signifying the multiple clues he can read just by looking at her. Damn, Irene thinks.

"We agreed, Irene. We said it would be too dangerous to go back there, risk them connecting us to our old identities. What were you thinking?" Sherlock moves across the room, gripping Irene's forearm hard. She shakes him off.

"I had some business to attend to. I didn't go anywhere near the flat, and anyway I wasn't followed. I did check."

"What business were you attending to? Irene?"

"I am not discussing this with you now." Irene turns on her heel and walks into the shower, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Irene!" Sherlock bangs against the door once, and then falls ominously silent. Irene sighs, and switches on the shower, pulling off her clothes. He isn't going to let this one go, she thinks. But she can't tell him where she's been. Not yet.

 

 

Surprisingly when she gets out of the shower Sherlock appears to have forgotten about their argument. He is lounging, front forward on the bed tapping away at his laptop again.

"I looked into the autism support group you mentioned."

"Oh?"

"One of the other members, Julia Foster, recently arrested for embezzling funds from her place of work. Interestingly, both she and Mrs Musgrave had been heavily involved with the same therapist, a quack doctor specialising in 'negative enzyme extraction' as an autism treatment. Scientifically complete nonsense, of course."

"You think he's in on it?"

"It makes sense. Rather a neat little operation, drain the poor fools of their money and then encourage them to work for his criminal employers as a way of paying his bills. Wherever there exists desperation, people will find a way to make money out of it." Sherlock shoots her a sarcastic smile.

"Poor Diana." Irene mutters. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her in surprise.

"That's rather more compassion than I would expect from you, Ms Adler. Difficult visit down South, was it?"

Irene shoots him a glare. "I think its time for dinner. I hope you aren't planning on wearing _that._ "

Sherlock scowls at her, and gets up to change.

 

 

"You're humming." Sherlock points out abruptly as they walk back to their room. She is, Irene realises. Possibly she's had a glass more of the wine than is strictly wise.

"What is that tune?"

"I think it's the Tellytubbies theme tune." Irene grimaces. "That bloody kid – he does this all the time. Regurgitates the same old songs and jingles, over and over – I don't think he even knows what any of them mean. It's driving me insane."

"Echolalia." Sherlock comments. "Rather a common trait in autism spectrum disorders. Children repetitively produce the same phrases or fragments of song, rather than engaging in what we would consider usual social interplays."

"You do know rather a lot about it." Irene says speculatively. "Why is that?"

Sherlock turns his back, apparently concentrating closely on fitting his key into the lock. Irene watches him, her smile predatory. "Sherlock?"

"When I was a child," Sherlock opens the door with a click, and waves an arm to usher her in. "It was one of the many diagnoses under consideration to describe me. Naturally, I researched it."

"Naturally." Irene agrees. "And did you agree with the diagnosis?"

Sherlock shrugs. "There are traits typical of autism that bear some resemblance to the my own – but overall, no I did not think it was a match. It was thrown about for a while, by doctors and the like. That was before I blew up the boy's Dormitory at Eton. After that, diagnoses tended more towards the anti social personality section of the psychiatric textbook. Personally," Sherlock grins at her, a little wolfishly. "I prefer the term sociopath."

Irene raises her eyebrows at him. She's known plenty of sociopaths – working in the trade she used to, one developed a knack of sniffing them out, learning how to tell by instinct which clients were dangerous. ( Not to mention the extensive experience Irene had gained from the sociopath she'd grown up with.) Sherlock very much did not fit that profile. However there was no use arguing with a man about a label that was obviously a salve to his ego.

"You must have been a troubled child to have received so many diagnoses. Or a troubling child," she says instead.

"The latter, certainly. My father and Mycroft were quite convinced there was something seriously the matter with me."

"And your mother?"

Sherlock's expression wavers momentarily. He moves over to the window to look out.

"She always told me that there was nothing wrong with me. That I was perfect the way I was."

"That's very sweet."

"Yes. It was also a lie. When she died I found out she'd left everything she owned, everything in her will, to Mycroft, with instructions to use it to take care of me. She didn't believe I would ever be capable of managing for myself."

 _Ouch,_ Irene thinks.

"It isn't pleasant to find that you've spent your life believing in a lie." Sherlock muses to himself. "Its one of the reasons I chose to hone my deductive abilities. I won't be deceived again easily. My ability to empathise might be lacking but my ability to read people generally isn't."

"No," Irene says. "I noticed."

She moves a little closer to him, looking out of the window at the street below. She puts a hand gently on his arm. Something in Sherlock's face twitches slightly, as if in protest at the gesture, but he doesn't move away. They stand in silence for a long while. Irene thinks over what was said. She isn't quite sure why Sherlock has chosen to share this story with her, now of all times. Perhaps it is some kind of manipulation, a bid to gain her sympathy … or perhaps he is simply feeling lonely. He has been a long time away from his friends, from his home territory.

"Is that why you won't accept help from your brother?" she says, remembering their earlier argument about money.

Sherlock smirks."Mycroft is quite desperate to discharge the terms of Mummy's will. To do his appointed duty by me. It amuses me not to allow him to. He lives in a state of permanently frustrated filial piety."

Irene smirks too. "You know always know exactly where to stick in the knife, don't you?" she says admiringly.

"Almost always." Sherlock agrees. "By the way." Sherlock straightens, the moment of vulnerability clearly over. "I forgot to mention. I found some information about your coronet online. Want to see the thing you're looking for?"

"Might be useful."

Sherlock reaches for his laptop; flipping to a new tab. Irene sees a small golden crown, liberally studded with rubies and garnets. Rather vulgar, really, she thinks – not something she'd have worn herself. She skims the section below, an account of the coronet's history and provenance. Apparently it had been in the French Royal family for several generations, and was smuggled out of the country by friends of Marie Antoinette after she'd fallen foul of the revolutionaries.

Something about the short paragraph nags at Irene, tugging on some thread in her memory. She frowns and leans closer, reading the paragraph again.

"Irene?" Sherlock is looking at her closely. "What is it?"

"Shh." Irene says.

_The coronet was last worn by Marie Antoinette at a ball shortly before her husband Louis' tumultuous fall from grace. The coronet was smuggled out of the country by…_

What did that remind her of?

Oh.

 _Looking for Mary, One Two Three…_ Mary. Marie Antoinette.

"She did it for her children." Irene breathes.

"What?"

"This song the boy keeps repeating. Most of his songs are off the TV or nursery rhymes – but I've never heard this one anywhere else. It must be because she taught it to him. She was leaving behind instructions on how to find the thing in case anything happened to her. By giving instructions to Danny she was ensuring the only person who could figure them out would be someone who had spent time with him - who cared about him. That's - rather clever, actually."

She looks over at Sherlock who is smiling at her more broadly than she's ever seen him do, eyes alight.

"What is the song? Repeat it to me. You remember all of it?"

"I should think so – I've heard it enough times. _Looking for Mary, one two three, where is she hiding, under the tree. Pick up the pieces, twelve ten eight, there's a surprise under the gate._ "

Sherlock grimaces. "Not much of a poet, your Mrs Musgrave. Still, the meaning is clear enough. We need to dig under this tree. Now, tonight!"

"We?"Irene raises her eyebrows. "Tonight?"

Sherlock shrugs. "There's no point wasting time. Anyway, you don't look like you've got the physique for digging."

"Neither do you." Irene points out.

"If we do this together tonight," he points out. "You don't have to go back and babysit those children tomorrow."

That _is_ a tempting thought.

"What happened to not attracting attention to you?" Irene asks. "If Fiona is having us followed…"

"You said yourself no one followed you to Worthing." Sherlock points out. "And if we wait an hour or so to slip out no one will see us. Anyway, if she does, you can just say that you got your City boyfriend along to help you dig, for a laugh."

"I could," Irene's resolve wavers. She is itching to be rid of this ridiculous Musgrave job. "All right. What do we need?"

 

 

It is pitch black in the Musgrave's garden. Irene is being sparing with the torch light, not wanting to draw the attention of the neighbours. Sherlock is poking at the ground with the shovel they found stashed in the Musgrave's shed.

"Here, I think." He mutters to himself and begins to dig. "This is where I start to miss John."

"Because you always made him do the hard work? It's a miracle the poor man put up with you, you know."

"So I was told. Frequently." Sherlock says. "Here – I've hit something hard. Shine the light."

Irene shines the torch downwards, shielding the glare of light from the windows with her body. Sherlock has uncovered a circular disk in the ground. It is split by jagged interlocking lines.

"Pick up the pieces. It's a jigsaw." Sherlock comments. "We'll have to remove the pieces in the correct order in order to get to what lies beneath. Angle the torch a little." Sherlock begins tentatively testing the pieces one by one. Eventually he manages to unpick the pattern and removes the covering. Underneath lies a metal grate. Irene angles her torch trying to see what lies underneath the grate but all she can see is the sides of an earthern pit and a faint glimmer or water. Sherlock begins unscrewing the grate cover.

"Wait," Irene says. "Be careful. There's a surprise under the gate. What if he meant grate?"

Sherlock nods, and leans back as he pulls off the grate. Nothing happens. Sherlock pokes the handle of the shovel down into the hole. There is a sharp snapping sound – something sharp and jagged swings across the space below, knocking the shovel from Sherlock's grip. Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Primitive booby trap."

"Well, then." Irene raises her eyebrows back. "What next, Indiana Jones?"

Sherlock picks up a long stick from the ground and jabs it into the hole, testing for further booby traps. Eventually, satisfied there is nothing more there he shuffles forwards into the hole and climbs down the ladder erected at the side of the shaft.

"What can you see?" Irene hisses down at him?

"I need a light." He replies.

"Move out of the way then." Irene whispers, and jumps down after him. It's a short drop and Irene lands in damp mud. She switched on the torch and shines it around her - they are in what can only be described as a small underground room. There's nothing in it except for a rusty looking metal safe in the corner. Sherlock falls to his knees, examining it.

"We need the combination."

"Try 12-10-08." Irene suggests, remembering the song.

"Of course." Sherlock mutters. The safe opens with a click.

Irene gasps. Nestling inside the safe is not only the coronet she saw on the internet but several other items as well – a thick golden chain inlaid with jewels, an ancient looking brass brooch in a celtic design, a fragment set of fine golden pins in a velvet case…

"Quite the little magpie, your Diana," Sherlock comments. Irene hands him the rucksack they brought and he begins shoving the contents of the safe into it.

"I knew you weren't a proper Nanny." A voice rings out from above them.

Irene starts and almost drops the torch. She whirls around to see Eloise, her moonlit face framed by the entrance to the shaft.

"Eloise," she gasps. "We were just…."

"Stealing from us. I can tell. " Eloise grabs hold of the grate and pushes it across the entrance to the shaft, shutting Sherlock and Irene in. "I'm going to call the police."

She reaches for the jigsaw pieces, slotting them in place over Sherlock and Irene's heads.

"Wait." Sherlock calls out beside Irene. "If you put the lid back on the shaft the air will run out. We'll be dead within 5 minutes."

Eloise hesitates for a moment and then shrugs. "You're criminals," she says flatly. "Why should I care?"

"Because we can help you." Irene calls out desperately. The girl only rolls her eyes and moves the pieces faster. "We can help _Danny_."

Eloise looks down at her frowning. "You don't give a damn about Danny."

"No," Irene admits. "But your mother did. She'd made a deal with the people I worked with – agreed to sell them this stuff," she indicates the bag of swag Sherlock is holding. "In exchange for enough money to help your brother – to keep him safe and cared for."

"My mother wouldn't," Eloise says jerkily. "she wouldn't get involved with criminals like you."

"She would if it was the only way to protect you both." Irene points out.

Eloise hesitiates.

"If you let us out," Irene continues. "I can see to it that that money goes to you – not to your father, you. The people I know, they are very clever. They can forge a document putting you in charge of Danny's care, as soon as you are of age. You won't have to put up with the idiots your father hires any more."

"You can really do that?"

"I promise. Sherlock?"

"Definitely. Please, Eloise, let us out."

"How do I know I can trust you? " Eloise frowns. Irene glances at Sherlock who bites his lip – and pulls out a gun.

"Here." He holds it out to the girl above them. "Neither of us are going to try anything funny while you have this in your hands."

Eloise's eyes widen, but she moves quickly to open the grate and accept the gun from Sherlock. She stand back then and lets Sherlock and Irene climb out, pointing the gun at them all the while. Irene takes a deep breath of the clear night air, her heart pounding.

"Thank you, Eloise." Sherlock says, with a very charming smile. "Now, I'm going to give you a valuable item from your mother's collection – it's a sign of good faith that we will make sure you get the money you are owed." Sherlock hand Eloise the golden chain. "And so you know that you don't need to call the police."

"OK." Eloise grabs the chain out of Sherlock's hands. "But if I don't hear about this money by this time next week I'm calling them anyway. "

"I wouldn't expect anything else." Sherlock smiles warmly at her.

Eloise merely nods and continues to point the gun in their direction. Irene is feeling increasingly tense, not at all sure they girl won't shoot them by accident.

"May we go now, Eloise?" The girl gives Irene a searching look, but eventually nods. "Don't you come back." She adds, gruffly.

"Believe me." Irene says in heartfelt tones. "I've no intention of doing so."

Sherlock and Irene turn and leave the garden as calmly as they can. As soon as they reach the street however they turn to look at each other – and then break into a run.

 

 

"I can't believe," Irene gasps once finally stop for breath several streets away. "That you gave a gun to a twelve year old. I didn't even know you had a gun."

"I can't believe we didn't get shot." Sherlock looks at her and grins. "That was – that was…."

"Terrifying?"

"Absolutely. And completely-"

"Wonderful?"

Sherlock nods, still gasping for breath."I haven't done this in so long. I've been so - cooped up, fishing through records, analysing databases, sneaking around. I've missed the game, Irene, I've missed it so much!" All of a sudden Sherlock's hands are around her waist, twirling her around with a dizzying laugh. "We were brilliant. Completely, utterly..." Sherlock slows to a stop, looking down at her face. For a moment Irene holds her breath – its all she can do to stare up at him, drink in the intense wanting expression that has appeared on his face.

And then just as suddenly he lets go of Irene, moving away.

"We'd better find a taxi. There should be a main road up this way…" Sherlock strides off, and Irene, taking a deep breath, goes to follow him.

 

 

 

"Well, well." Fiona looks down into the bag of loot Irene has passed her. "It seems our Diana had more up her sleeve than we realised."

"She must have been stealing from her workplace for a while." Irene agrees.

"Well done." Fiona smiles at her. "You've more than earned your fee."

"There are some strings attached, I'm afraid." Irene explains to her about Eloise Musgrave. "You'll need to pay her the fee owed to her mother, make sure it's in her name."

"Need to?" Fiona raises her eyebrows. "She's only a twelve year old child, what damage can she really do?"

"There might be enough evidence lying around to incriminate someone." Irene points out. "Most likely me. Do we really need to take that risk? It isn't as if you haven't gained more income than you'd expected from this little heist. And after all – you're an organisation that likes to keep its promises, aren't you?"

Fiona's eyes flash with amusement. "We, Irene. You are part of this organisation now. Very well, I'll see to it the children get their money. It is interesting, though, seeing this soft heartedness from you."

"It isn't soft heartedness." Irene protests. "Eloise Musgrave could be a genuine threat if angered."

"And you know perfectly well we have a myriad ways to dispose of threats like Eloise without resorting to bribery." Fiona's smile is brittle. Irene suppresses a shudder. Eloise Musgrave is an obnoxious child, but Irene has no desire to see her murdered.

"But no –I'll indulge you, just this once. You know. There are some among my associates who would view compassion displayed by a con woman as a negative trait. But I think you and I know just how useful the ability to empathise can be, as long as you can shut it off. How else do you find out how to manipulate?" Fiona gives her a wide smile, standing up. "I'll be in touch, Irene."

"I'll look forward to it." Irene says, as smoothly a she can manage. For some reason her mouth feels rather dry. She watches Fiona stride away, and for the first time she realises that every mousy little gesture hides a cold implacable purpose – one that is undoubtedly completely opposed to everything Sherlock and Irene are trying to achieve. Shivering a little, Irene pulls her jacket around her shoulders, turns around and heads home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slowness of this update!
> 
> As you may have noticed, the plot for this chapter was heavily influenced by ACD's short story 'The Musgrave Rituals'.


	10. Victoria Station

For a week after Musgrave case life is unnervingly peaceful. Irene keeps expecting Fiona to call her with a new assignment but her phone remains stubbornly silent. Sherlock is also remarkably quiet, spending long hours by the window their room and scowling at the street below. When Irene tries to speak to him he merely snaps 'Thinking,' so she leaves him to it. She remembers Watson telling her that Sherlock often got so wrapped up in his own thought process he was be unaware of who was or wasn't around him. Now and then Irene looks catches Sherlock staring at her with an expression of intense concentration on his face.

Bored, Irene decides to escape from the rather intense atmosphere brewing around Sherlock and spends more and more time in the hotel bar. She devises a game, trying to figure out how many drinks she can have bought for her without speaking a single word to anyone. She stops when she realises there is she is in danger of impairing her liver function.

In the end Irene succumbs to the temptations whispered by the hefty wodge of cash in her pocket and decides to work off her boredom in the shops. She can't risk being seen in her old haunts, unfortunately, but London is large enough and there are places even she hasn't explored. She is in a small boutique trying on a chic purple dress when her phone chimes. Irene ignores it at first, smoothing out her skirt and turning to admire the fit of it in the mirror. Very nice.

The phone chimes again. Irene sighs, and picks up the phone. Two messages – from Fiona.

_I'm sending a mutual friend to meet you. He has got himself into a spot of trouble, and I think you could be exactly the person to help him out._

_PS – That dress would look better in red._

Irene looks up, locating the security camera, and rolls her eyes. She dresses with deliberate casualness, and then leaves the shop (though not before purchasing the dress). Leaving the shop she is completely unsurprised to find a young man in a leather jacket and jeans leaning against the wall waiting for her.

"Miss Hosmer?" He asks, pushing himself off the wall and holding out a hand. He is very good looking, Irene realises – soft dark hair flopping into hazel eyes, broad shoulders, very white straight teeth. He isn't as young as he appears at first sight– there are fine lines around his eyes, and his posture is a conscious imitation of carefree youth rather than the thing itself.

"Yes," Irene says cooly, taking his hand. "And you are?"

"Jack Elsworth," the man says smoothly. (Pseudonym, of course.) "My friend Fiona mentioned you. How about I take you for a drink?"

"All right."

He takes her around the corner to the Levington hotel, and orders champagne without asking Irene. Neither of them consider the fact that it is still only eleven o' clock in the morning worthy of comment.

"Well, now," says Irene, taking a sip of her drink , and leaning back into the comfortable leather sofa. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Jack smiles at her in a way that is absolutely calculated to be dazzling. Irene wonders idly how often he has his teeth bleached.

"Miss Hosmer – Angela. May I call you that?"

"Of course." Irene says drily. For all his air of casual intimacy, Jack undoubtedly knows as well as Irene does that she is not using her own name.

"You see before you a desperate man. One who can only come to you and beg most abjectly for your help." His eyes sparkle at her inviting her to join in the joke, but Irene isn't fooled. His foot is twitching under the table and his carefully groomed nails show recent signs of being bitten. This man's anxiety is very real.

"Oh yes? What sort of help specifically?"

"Well, you see I happen to have run into some little professional difficulties. Certain people have been taking an unwarranted interest in my business practices."

"Certain people?"

"The police, to be precise."

"How very unfortunate."

"Yes, I thought so. Well, it appears they are building up a case against me, not entirely successfully, but it does hamper business rather, having plain clothes officers breathing down my neck all the time, checking all my bank statements."

"I can only imagine. Might I inquire as to the precise nature of your business?"

"I work in - investments. Principally, finding investors, you understand, wealthy individuals with a taste for – well, I am told I can be rather persuasive. Some of these investors haven't seen quite the returns they have hoped for. Most of them have had the sense to keep their mouths shut about it but it seems one or two have been stupid enough to try and kick up a fuss."

Ah. Con man. Irene looks him up and down. He must be rather good if Fiona is willing to bring Irene in to protect him.

"These 'investors' are usually women?" Irene guesses.

"Usually, although I don't restrict myself."

"And you usually sleep with them, I suppose."

It is the perfect way to gain the loyalty of the mark, to blind them to the risks of a venture. All those blissful chemicals flooding their body, muddling their judgment. And then once they do realise they've been had they are too embarrassed to admit it to themselves, let alone the police.

"It's one of the perks of the job." Jack winks at her.

"Hmmm. Where exactly do I fit in to all this?"

"The police case against me is shaky. They don't have the evidence they need to bring this to trial. However they do seem persistent in trying to find the evidence. What you can provide is a distractions – you will appear to them the final piece in their case, the nail in my coffin. A reliable, sympathetic witness, the kind who can persuade a jury to get a bad man locked up for a long time."

"Except when it actually come to the trial, I will disappear, and their case will collapse."

"Exactly. They can't try me twice, and after such a spectacular failure on their part no one will be keen to throw their limited resources at trying to catch me out again." Jack leans back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and grins at her.

"I take it I am to play the part of one of the women you have wronged?"

"Fiona thinks you'd be rather good at it."

Irene takes a long drink of her champagne and looks at Jack contemplatively. As an operation it will take quite a bit of nerve – she'll have to walk in to Scotland Yard and lie to the faces of the police. Well, nerve isn't something she lacks. And for once the operation doesn't involve either animals or small children, which is definite plus.

"All right."

Jack beams at her, delightedly. "Perfect." The blackberry in his pocket buzzes and he looks at it with a grimace. "Looks like I'm needed elsewhere. Listen. I'll meet you this evening to properly debrief?" Something about the gleam in his eyes when he looks down at her tells Irene that wasn't an unintentional double entendre.

"I'll look forward to it."

She gives him the address of her hotel and they arrange to meet there at six. Irene leaves the bar with a light heart, something that can only be partially attributed to the champagne. It seems for once she is going to be given a task worthy of the talents.

 

***

"It's too early for dinner." Sherlock is looking at her with a confused frown, as she puts the finishing touches to her makeup. She is wearing the red dress. Fiona was right, it looks wonderful on her.

"I'm meeting someone." Irene blots her lipstick, cocking her head to one side to survey the effect.

"You didn't tell me."

"You didn't ask." Irene turns around sharply making her skirt flare. She notices Sherlock pulling his gaze away from her legs with difficulty. "Actually, I might not make dinner if this meeting goes on too long. Don't worry, I'll update you later. Feel free to carry on staring out of the window for as long as you like."

She picks up her bag and walks out of the room without a backwards glance, but she can feel Sherlock's open mouthed stare on her as she leaves. She smirks to herself. No one ignores Irene Adler. Not for long.

Jack is waiting for her as she enters the hotel bar. His eyebrows rise as he sees her and he lets out an admiring whistle.

"Lady in red. You look wonderful." He lingers as he kisses her cheek and continues to look down at her with a look of dazzled admiration. Irene is amused. She has used the you–are-the-only-person-in-the-room look a dozen times herself and knows exactly how effective it is. Jack is going to have to try harder than that if he really wants to manipulate her.

"I'll have a margherita." She informs him coolly.

Jack gives her a laugh and goes to get the drinks. When he comes back he has what she supposes is his business face on. Pulling his chair close to hers he begins talking in a low voice. He explains in detail how he goes about his cons, his usual wooing process, the ways in which he extracts money.

"It's always about the relationship, at first." He says. "By the time I ask them for any money at all they're usually in pretty deep already."

He prefers to go after married women, or people in relationships, because it gives him the advantage of being able to blackmail his victims.

"They won't want to admit they cheated, so they'll do anything they can to cover up the money they've lost themselves. Fake a gambling habit, an armed robbery, anything but admit they shagged a conman." The grin on Jack's face is the first completely uncalculated expression Irene has seen him use. He isn't only in it for the money, then. He enjoys this.

Irene is distracted momentarily by movement at the end of the bar. Sherlock, changed out of his crumpled sulking t shirt, is dressed in well pressed suit and bow tie. He glances at her briefly as he enters and then looks away. He starts a conversation with the bartender but Irene isn't deceived. He is watching her in the reflection of the bar mirror.

Irene smiles more broadly, and lays a hand on Jack's arm. "That's a very clever tactic." She says huskily. It isn't, of course. It's the oldest trick in the book, but Irene is watching the tension increase ever so slightly in Sherlock's shoulders.

"I like to think I'm good at what I do."

"That face of yours does half the work for you, I suppose." Irene teases lightly.

Jack cocks his head in insincere bashfulness. "Well, I don't know about that."

"Tell me again about the gifts you buy them." Irene prompts, lowering her eyelids seductively.

"Yeah, well, I always start by buying them something small but valuable. Jewellery, something like that. Then when I start asking for things they feel obligated. It helps if it's something personal as well, you know, horseshoe earrings for a girl who had a pony as a kid, that kind of thing."

"You ought to buy me something, for authenticity's sake."

"I should." His eyes flick up and down her body. "But I don't know what you like."

"Oh, Jack." Irene says, softly, running a manicured finger gently down his arm, right to the centre of his palm. Jack gives a shiver of what is undoubtedly quite genuine desire – and looks rather surprised about it. "You'll never get very far in this business if you can't figure out what people _like_."

"Excuse me," A voice says from behind her. It is Sherlock, and he has adopted his best Hector Billingsworth smile – genial, polite, slightly foolish. "Angela, are you coming to dinner soon? Only I'm awfully hungry."

"Sorry darling." Irene says lightly. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting. It's just that I ran in to an old friend – Jack Elsworth, this is my boyfriend Hector."

"Pleasure to meet you." Jack's eyes gleam with amusement as he shakes Sherlock's hand.

"Likewise." Sherlock is all affability.

"Jack and I were at school together." Irene explains sweetly.

"Were you really? What a coincidence bumping into each other like this again!"

"Yes, I was just telling Angela, it must be fate."

Irene hides a smile in her cocktail glass. It's clear from his snide tone of voice that Jack has sized 'Hector' up and decided that he is an idiot. Oh, poor Jack.

"You must join us for dinner, mustn't he, Angie?" Sherlock puts an arm around Irene's waist.

"Ah, no, unfortunately I have some business I need to attend to. But perhaps we can catch up another time. Ang, you have my number?"

"Of course."

Jack tips back the remainder of his drink and leaves them. The smile slips of Sherlock's face as he watches Jack's retreating back.

"Any particular reason you felt the need to muscle in on my meeting?"

Sherlock tucks an arm under hers, steering her towards the restaurant. "If you'd told me what you were doing beforehand I wouldn't have had to." He says coldly. "I think I'll have the carbonara today."

"I was gathering information. You could have waited." Irene says.

They have reached the restaurant. Sherlock pulls back a chair for Irene to sit on and then settles opposite her.

"You had obviously gleaned all that was useful from the meeting already. I doubt Jack-the-con-man makes for a very complex character study. You were merely trying to irritate me by lingering."

"Well, it seems to have worked," Irene says. "Why is _that_ , do you think?"

Sherlock opens the menu with a sharp snap and proceeds to ignore her for the rest of the meal.

***

Irene meets Jack a few times over the following days, to set up the appearance of an affair between them. Irene rather enjoys herself - Jack may not be the sharpest tool in the box but he is fun, and they spend some pleasant time trying to out-flirt each other. Spending time with Jack also has the advantage that it clearly annoys Sherlock immensely, although after their conversation in the restaurant he is careful never to vocalise his displeasure.

"I think it's time." Irene announces, having come back from an evening out dancing with Jack. Sherlock is hunched by the window with his laptop, and he looks up at her curiously.

"I'm going to contact the police tomorrow."

"Excellent." Sherlock says. "I suppose this means you will have to stop seeing Jack?"

"Maybe," Irene shrugs. "I might still need him for a couple of brainstorming sessions."

"I wasn't aware he had a brain to storm." Sherlock mutters under his breath.

"Jack thinks the DI running the case is getting pretty desperate for leads. She's new to the job, needs to prove herself. There are rumours of something dodgy about her promotion, apparently. Supposed to have stabbed her previous DI in the back, or something."

"What's the DI's name?" Sherlock asks, looking thoughtful.

Irene tries to remember. Jack had been a little worse for wear after their third set of shots and had been slurring his words slightly.

"Something beginning with D, I think. Dagenham?"

"Donovan."

"Yes, I think so. You know her?"

"Idiots." Sherlock mutters under his breath. "Watch your voice," he says, more clearly. "Sally doesn't like posh accents. And don't downplay your intelligence too much – she's not fond of fools either. Tell her you're a rags to riches story, professional woman who came from nothing. Remind her of her own hard childhood. She'll like that."

"Right. I'll speak to Fiona about creating an identity that fits." Sherlock nods, and looks back out of the window.

"I take it you aren't planning to sleep with him?"

"Jack?"

"All his other victims have, more or less."

"True. His other victims didn't shop him to the police, though." Irene watches Sherlock's unmoving back. "Would it bother you if I did?"

Sherlock flicks open his laptop and begins typing again. "Of course not."

 

***

"Thanks for meeting with me." DI Donovan meets her in the foyer at Scotland Yard, and shakes her hand. "I'm sorry you had to wait."

Irene looks at her, as she leads the way to the interview room. Donovan is certainly young to have made Detective Inspector. She's dressed in a dress suit with what Irene knows to be a rather expensive pair of heels. Definitely keen to impress. Her hands clench unconsciously as she speaks to her colleagues, who respond to her with blank faces and ambivalent expressions. She's been thrust into the position of leader with a team who dislike her – she's tense, defensive, lonely, and above all determined not to fail. Yes, these are weaknesses Irene can exploit.

"So," Donovan slaps a tape recorder on the table before taking the seat opposite. "Tell me about your relationship with Jack Elsworth."

Irene is kept in the police station for several hours. Any anxiety she had is quickly replaced with boredom as she is forced to repeat the same information several times over. Irene thinks she managed to make a good impression: she sees a significant look pass between Donovan and Laker, her sergeant, part way through the interview.

Eventually, they appear to have exhausted Irene's evidence, and Donovan offers to show her out.

"Thanks for listening to me." Irene says, as they pass into the main foyer of Scotland Yard. "I wasn't sure anyone would take an interest."

"Believe me." Donovan says grimly. "We've been after Elsworth for a while. Right scumbag, between you and me."

"He seemed like such a nice guy." Irene sighs.

"Well, you can't blame yourself. Men like that they're manipulative. Sociopaths. Its in their DNA. They seem normal, charming as long as they want something, but then - they aren't like us, aren't normal, aren't human. And the best of us can be fooled…." Something about the far away tone in DI Donovan's voice makes Irene guess she isn't talking about Elsworth anymore.

"This your first case as DI?" Irene asks. Donovan shoots her a surprised look.

"Sorry, I just – I heard one of the other officers talking."

"Did you." Donovan's expression is stony.

Irene sighs gustily, adopts an expression of pained nostalgia."I remember when I was promoted to head of the marketing division. The first six months was hell. My subordinates hated me. Said I was too young for the promotion, it was positive discrimination, all that crap. Couldn't stand that a woman had made it when they hadn't, insisted I must have played dirty somehow. Must be worse for you - I mean the police force isn't exactly known for being feminist."

For a moment Donovan's expression is hard and Irene is afraid that she's overstepped. Then her face crumples slightly and for a moment Irene thinks she will cry.

"Yeah. The hell of it is, I didn't even want to be promoted – I mean, I did eventually, but not like this. My– my old DI got in a spot of bother, you see, everyone says it was my doing but I never intended it to happen the way it did. I was just doing my job, you know? But being a good cop is never good enough, round here."

Irene lays a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and Donovan's head snaps up, seemingly realising how unprofessional she's being.

"Sorry about that. I don't usually unload on witnesses."

"That's quite all right." Irene says gently. "Like I said, I've been there enough times. I hope my evidence can help you."

"Oh, I think it will. If I can just crack this bastard." Donovan smiles grimly at Irene. "In any case. I'll be I touch, let you know if we need to speak to you again."

"Of course."

Irene walks out of the door with a spring in her step. Donovan might not be an easy nut to crack but Irene has her pretty hard and fast now.

***

 

"Well?" Jack greets her in the foyer of her hotel. "How did it go?"

Irene glances at him in irritation. "Is it a good idea for you to be here?"

"Had to know what happened, Darling. I've been sick with anxiety for you."

"For yourself, you mean." Irene has never liked clingy men. "It was fine. You were right, that DI is nearly at the end of her tether. Should be easy enough to reel her in."

Jack bursts into a grin. "Knew you weren't just a pretty face. Let me buy you a drink to celebrate."

Irene contemplates the idea, and finds it unappealing. "Sorry, Love, got a dinner date."

Jack wrinkles up his nose in disgust. "That boyfriend of yours is too boring for you. Blow him off just this once - let me show you just how grateful I am." He gives Irene a lascivious look.

Irene resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Sorry, now isn't the time. I'll see you later."

She ducks around him into the lift.

 

***

 

Irene does a little more research into Sally Donovan that night. Sherlock is back by his seat in the window, staring down onto the yellow lit streets with a sullen expression.

"You didn't tell me she got you arrested." She says, turning to Sherlock with eyebrows raised.

Sherlock shrugs. "Wasn't relevant."

"And that the DI she betrayed was your friend."

"Colleague. And she wouldn't have viewed it was a betrayal. She's by the book, is Miss Sally."

Irene leans back. "You could say she betrayed you."

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"You should be enjoying this. Vengence is yours."

"Oh, dull." Sherlock snaps. "She wasn't my friend, she was barely my colleague, she has no significance to me whatsoever. Why should I care about her downfall? She was a tool, a stupid unimaginative little tool that Moriarty used against me. I wouldn't lower myself by acting against her. This isn't personal, Irene."

"You seem rather tense for a person who isn't taking this personally."

"I'm tense because this case is a waste of time. There's nothing to investigate, nothing to uncover apart from the antics of that idiotic con man of yours, which any intelligent observer would be able to deduce after two second of looking at his oh so expertly waxed face. I wish you would hurry up and just finish the job before we waste any more time." Sherlock swings himself out of his seat and stalks over to the door.

"Where are you going."

"Out. I have work to so."

Sherlock slams the door dramatically behind him. Irene raises her eyebrows. Interesting.

 

***

DI Donovan calls her back into the yard a couple more times that week. She doesn't slip back in to confiding in Irene, clearly aware of that doing so represented a crack in her professional demeanour, but her body language around Irene is relaxed, her tone warm. It's clear that she trusts Irene, has no reservations about resting her precious case on Irene's model-citizen shoulder's.

"And has he contacted you since we last spoke?"

"Yes, he approached me in the hotel where I am staying – with my boyfriend." Irene makes sure to glance down guiltily. She had confided in Donovan about her difficulties in staying faithful to her 'boyfriend' and Donovan, woman of the world, had understood perfectly.

"He wanted to take me out with him again. I obviously couldn't tell him that I'd sussed him out, so I just made up a story about having to have dinner with Hector. He didn't take it particularly well, honestly – he makes me nervous."

"Don't worry." Donovan says gently. "We're keeping an eye on him for the time being – and we plan to arrest him soon. He won't be able to hurt you."

"Oh, I hope not-"

Irene stops short as her phone begin to ring shrilly from her bag. She fishes it out, frowning at the unfamiliar number and puts it to her ear. She listens for all of thirty seconds and then gets to her feet.

"Terribly sorry." She says to Donovan, with a warm smile. "I'm going to have to cut this short – problem at work . You don't mind if I-"

"Not at all. I'll give you a call if we have further questions."

"Thank you." Irene struggles to assume the correct facial expression for the occasion. Gratitude, with a touch of worry over her supposed emergency. Donovan gives her a sympathetic glance as she leaves.

Irene gets out of the building as quickly as she can and heads for the nearest tube station. She has a train to catch.

***

In the end the meeting is short. The doctors say their piece with detached sympathy, lay out their recommendations. Irene detects a subtle wariness in their body language. They are worried she will break down, swallow up more of their precious time and energy by needing to be comforted. They don't know her at all. Irene gives them a business like smile and snaps open her handbag to find a pen.

"Of course. I have every faith in your medical judgment. Now if you'll excuse me I have business in London. Where do I sign?"

The train journey home seems longer than Irene remembers. She taps her feet impatiently, pulls out her phone to check her messages for the fifth time since she got on the train. All this has taken far too much time. Sherlock is right – this business with DI Donovan has been going on far too long - she needs to find a way to finish it.

She is on her feet as the train pulls in to the station. Pushing through the crowds at the ticket barrier feels somehow more exhilarating than annoying. She feels a flash of petty triumph as she manages to cut ahead of a city boy in a suit queuing to get out. She looks at the flood of rush hour commuters filling the station in front of her and feels a strange exhalation. This is where she belongs. She'd forgotten how much she disliked being locked away in that dead little backwater, how much she adores London, all business and bustle and cutthroat jostling life. And now it is hers completely. Her last tie with Worthing is cut – and will be. The thought is glorious, is impossible, is… is…

The station platform seemed to shiver before her eyes. Her vision is darkening, black spots appearing at the corner of her eyes. She blinks hard. Low blood sugar. Of course, hasn't eaten since morning, before she went to the police station over 7 hours ago. She should find somewhere to sit down. Get something to eat. Her body feels strangely heavy and reluctant to move, and the station around her seems to lurch sickeningly, sliding away from her. She is about to faint, Irene realises, for the first time since she was twelve years old…

And then Irene feels a hand on her back, sharp fingers grasping hard around her elbow.

"There's a Costa Coffee on the other side on the platform." A familiar voice rumbles in her ear. "Come on." Irene finds herself pulled through the whirling crowd, a merciless grip at her elbow. Once in the cafe Sherlock deposits Irene unceremoniously on a leather sofa and stalks away again. He comes returns a minute later with a lemon flavoured muffin and a thunderous scowl.

"I told you not to go there again."

"You followed me. You – you've been following me."

"I've been keeping an eye on you, yes. In case you do something idiotic like run off to the place where we specifically agreed you weren't supposed to go and then draw attention to yourself by fainting in a crowded station."

Irene feels her cheeks begin to burn. "I didn't faint."

"You were about to. Here." Sherlock takes off jacket and thrusts it over to her. "Apparently it's good for shock."

"I'm not in shock."

Sherlock shoots her a look that says more clearly than words ever could _you are being unbelievably stupid._

"You're shivering. There are goose pimples on your arms. Your eyes are glassy, and your heartbeat rapid. Judging from your conversation your IQ has apparently dropped several hundred points. I could carry on listing the evidence all day but I fear both of us might get bored."

 _Arse._ But she is shivering, Irene realises. "For God's sake." She huffs, pulling the jacket over herself. And immediately feels warmer.

Sherlock breathes out heavily through his nose and leans back in his chair, arms folded, jaw clenched. Irene isn't sure exactly why but his anger feels somehow comforting, a warm furnace that she can warm herself against. She sits still for a few moments just watching him, and slowly the word seems to click back into place, her heart beat slowing, her breathing back to normal. She leans forward and breaks off a piece of muffin, chewing it slowly. The sugar enters her bloodstream making the world around her pull into sharper focus.

"So," she says wryly, once she is entirely collected again. "You rescued me. Very romantic."

Sherlock leans forward, expression close to a snarl. "Does it occur to," he hisses. "That were something to _happen_ to you, were you to draw attention of your terrorist friends and get yourself _assassinated_ before you finish your mission that both you and I would both be up shit creek without a paddle."

Irene blinks. She's never heard Sherlock swear before.

"You think I endangered our mission."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock snaps, although Irene isn't quite sure what exactly was so ridiculous about the question. She sighs and philosophically decides to take another bite of muffin.

When she looks up Sherlock is staring at her hands.

"She's dying then?" he asks, quietly.

Irene starts. "Who?"

"Your mother. Obviously. You signed an order to withdraw food and water this morning."

Irene blinks. "How did you-" she stops. This is an obviously stupid question.

"During the time I have known you, you have absented yourself regularly on the first Thursday of the month. You always return in a bad mood and smelling of cleaning fluid, cheap gravy and very faintly, of urine. _Eau de nursing home_. Clearly you weren't paying a social visit, quite apart from it not being your preferred scene, no one finds it necessary to visit their sick and elderly on the same day every month. You were conducting legal business, meeting with her doctors and her carers to discuss treatment plans. You hold power of attorney, so mostly likely you are next of kin to someone residing in the home. So a close relative, probably a parent. Today, however, is not the first Thursday of the month, you weren't planning to make a trip this morning, so there has been a change in your mother's condition. Your finger bears the impression of a pen which you were holding tightly to keep your hand from shaking. There is an ink stain on the tip of your finger, most uncharacteristic. Your emotional state tells me the rest."

"Well done," Irene drawls. "Except I'm not in an emotional state. I skipped lunch."

Sherlock makes a disagreeing noise. "You put your freedom in jeopardy to go and see this woman on her deathbed. Clearly a sentimental attachment."

"I didn't go to see her. I went to sign some papers. I haven't clapped eyes on her directly since I was sixteen years old. It has nothing at all to do with sentiment. I don't inherit if I don't involve myself in her care."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Wealthy, is she?"

"Reasonably."

"Irene. When you wish to you can charge several thousand pounds a night for your services. Or you can work for someone like Fiona and earn half a million from a single con. You are really telling me that the trivial legacy of some middle class old lady is really worth so much to you?"

"It's my money. I think I'm owed it."

"Oh, I see. Caring for your mother is a form of _revenge_. After twenty years of silence you return to show her the concern her well being that she never offered you. Very poetic. Of course abused children commonly-"

"I wasn't abused."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, as if to indicate _that's what they all say._

Irene rolls her eyes. "Believe me, I wasn't. And this wasn't about revenge. When I accepted the power of attorney, it was shortly after I'd died – I'd lost everything. It was a practical decision."

"Very practical." Sherlock says sarcastically. "You'd been exposed, humiliated, your plans for your life upturned, your very identity wiped out, and so you decided to return to the scene of you childhood, clinging to the only roots you have left despite your contempt for them. Iris Adams wasn't even a pseudonym, was it? It was your old name, the one you left behind when you came to London."

Irene laughs. "Because the lawyers needed it, it was the only way I could lay claim to the inheritance. Do you think I wanted to spend the rest of my life working in dress shops?"

"There were a thousand other ways you could have avoided that fate. You were motivated by something different. Sentiment." Sherlock smirks at her.

Anger floods Irene's body, a sudden flash of heat, that pulls her up out of her chair and onto her feet. "Why exactly do you care about any of this? It has nothing to do with Moriarty, nothing to do with your mission. Why exactly does it matter to you?"

Something flickers in Sherlock's eyes as he looks back at her and before she knows it, he is on his feet too, face bent over hers, eyes sharp with some unfamiliar emotion. And then he swoops forward and for one brief burning moment there is a mouth pressing hard against hers, a long fingered hand cupping her cheek.

And then before Irene even has time to blink, Sherlock has stepped back and is striding away from her out of the coffee shop. Blinking, Irene moves to follow him, stumbling slightly over the leg of her chair. When she reaches the door of the café however he has disappeared, lost in the churning mass of travellers crossing the station.

***

The journey back to the hotel is long and excruciating. The Northern Line is closed so Irene ends up having to walk from King's Cross station. She makes it half way before it starts to rain. Irene swear words under her breath, mostly aimed at a certain idiotic detective. And then, just to perfect matters, she sees a familiar face standing at the corner of the street holding an umbrella over her head and smiling seraphically.

"Irene."

"Fiona. I hope you didn't come out in this weather simply to ambush me. You could simply have waited at the hotel."

"I wanted to offer you the use of my umbrella." Fiona shakes the umbrella to one side, dislodging loose water droplets before holding it up again over Irene's head. "You'll get soaked. My condolences, by the way. I lost my own mother eight years ago. It was a difficult time."

Irene looks at Fiona in alarm, but Fiona merely smiles.

"Of course we knew about your connection to her. Do you really think we wouldn't do our research?"

"I see." Irene looks at Fiona carefully. If she knows about Irene's Worthing connections she might be able to trace back her connection with Sherlock. But Fiona's body language is relaxed, businesslike, nothing to suggest an intention to lead Irene into a side alley and shoot her in the head.

"I came to tell you," Fiona says calmly. "The police have arrested Jack Elsworth. We expect him to be released on police bail within a couple of hours. Your work on that case is completed. The only thing left for you to do…"

"Is disappear at the correct point in time, I know." Irene says.

"Excellent." Fiona smiles more broadly. "You know, we really are all very pleased with your work, Irene. In fact, we think it might be time for you to take on some additional responsibility."

"Oh yes?"

"I've arranged a meeting with my boss. He wants to brief you on your next task in person. Can I pick you up tomorrow morning at eleven?"

"Certainly. Can you tell me where we'll be going?"

Fiona's eyes gleam with amusement. "No where sinister, I promise. I'd dress smartly, however. He places a lot of emphasis on appearances."

Irene doesn't ask why he'd hired Fiona if that was the case. Her current attire, a lumpish looking tweed suit sets Irene's teeth on edge.

"I'll do my best."

They have turned onto the street on which Irene's hotel is situated.

"I'll leave you here, if you don't mind. I have some other matters to attend to. And it looks like someone else wants to speak to you."

Irene turns her head. Sherlock is standing on a few feet away, leaning back against the railings. His hair drenched and sticking to his forehead. His eyes are fixed on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **frogsfortea** has done an amazing drawing of the kiss! [Kissing scene](http://frogsfortea.deviantart.com/art/Kissing-scene-380332363)


	11. All In

"Well?" Irene's voice comes out rather sharper then she'd intended. Sherlock doesn't answer, merely carries on staring at her.  
"You walked off in rather a hurry." Irene points out, and feels irritated with herself. Stating the obvious is beneath her entirely. Sherlock doesn't mock her for it, though. He doesn't say anything at all. He is staring at her as if trying to see through her, as if the answer to all of life's problems might be printed at the back of her skull, and he might be able to see them if he just looked hard enough.  
A car passes them on the rain slicked roads, spattering the back of Irene's legs with water. Sherlock twitches abruptly and whatever spell that had been on him appears to lift. He leans forward and catches Irene by the shoulder, in a grip that stops just short of being painful.  
"Irene," He mutters in her ear. "Let's skip dinner."

 

________________________________________

 

Irene isn't entirely sure how they make it up to her room. There is a buzzing in her ears, a strange insistent thrumming of blood, the only thing that seems solid and real is Sherlock's hand around her wrist. They close the door behind them and he pushed her against it, looking down at her for a long moment before lowering his head and pressing his lips against hers again. He kisses her lightly this time, barely doing more than brushing her lips with this, then moves to kiss her cheek, her neck. It's as if he is trying to map her out, measure the exact texture and taste of her before committing it all to memory. Enough teasing, Irene thinks. She grabs a fistful of jacket, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Sherlock makes a choked off noise and then responds with equal vigour. His mouth is hot, greedy, for the moment entirely hers. Irene lets her eyes flutter closed. She wonders how she could ever wanted anything but this. Sherlock's mouth against hers, his choked breaths, his fingers tracing the lines of her body over through her clothes. His kisses are fierce, biting, but his hands are surprisingly gentle, when Irene opens her eyes she sees that he is looking at her with a kind of wildness in his eyes, an expression that is half a question, half a demand.

Irene pushes him back, tugging the jacket off his shoulders and dropping it to pool on the floor. She manoeuvres him until the back of his legs hit the bed and he sits abruptly, inelegantly. Irene looks down at him for a moment, tracing the line of his cheek with one finger, before climbing into his lap. He makes a muffled noise and Irene knows suddenly with a fierce rush of pride that he hasn't done this before, not with anyone. She tugs at his collar, angling his face upward, biting at his lower lip.

"Irene."

She pulls at his shirt, sliding her hand underneath the fabric to touch him. Sherlock's hands tighten around her waist, fingernails biting through her clothes. The world has narrowed to a single narrow point, this room, damp clothes and heated flesh, and Sherlock breathing raggedly in her ear.

"Irene," Sherlock's face is buried in her neck. "I don't – I don't know…"

"Shh." Irene replies, and pulls back, getting to her feet. Sherlock looks up at her, eyes burning. Slowly Irene shucks off her coat and then pulls down the zipper of her dress and steps out. Sherlock swallows watching her as she removes the last of her clothes. He moves to unbutton his own shirt, but Irene raises a hand to stop him.

"Wait."

Looking down at him she remembers the first time they met, when he'd sat in her drawing room in that ridiculous dog collar, the way his eyes widened when he saw her in her battle dress. She'd wanted to do this then, and now, now she finally has the chance. Irene climbs back into Sherlock's lap, pushing him back against the pillows, and he gasps, hands travelling up her body, stroking, touching. He must be so uncomfortable, Irene thinks, in those damp clothes, in the trousers that are rapidly growing too tight for him. Right now he probably can't even remember how to go about removing them. There isn't room for anything in his head but her.

"Irene," he whispers in her ear, sliding a hand up her thigh and in that moment she is as lost as he is.

 

________________________________________

"You do realise," Sherlock says. "That this changes the nature of our partnership considerably?"

Sherlock has removed himself from the tumble of sheets that had previously cocooned them and is standing by the window, eyes on the street again. Irene can’t help but feel a little irritated both by the distance and the sudden coldness in the bed.

"You are old fashioned." Irene comments, sitting up.

Sherlock turns his head towards her, face half cast into shadow. "I don't do this, Irene." He says distinctly. "Not ever."

Irene looks at him carefully, at the face silhouetted by the street light from outside. He looks younger like this, hair tumbled, mouth set. Easy to hurt. Surprisingly, the idea is as painful as it is intriguing.

"This is an exception for me too," she admits, at last.

Sherlock steeples his hands in front of his mouth, apparently deep in thought. Then, with the abrupt swiftness of a cat pouncing on its prey moves across the room toward her, sitting on the bed in front of her.

"Moriarty," he states.

Irene raises her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you were thinking about him as well? This is embarrassing." She drawls. "Although, come to think of it, I wouldn't be averse to a little roleplay – I do look rather good in a suit."

Sherlock gives her a scornful look. "No. Moriarty. You knew him."

"Because we grew up in the same town?"

"The coincidence is rather immense."

Irene looks away. "Yes. I knew him."

Sherlock reaches out a hand abruptly, long fingers encircling her wrist. To anyone else it might look like a tender gesture but Irene isn’t fooled. 

Irene looks at him, at those eyes, sharp, piercing... and perhaps, just a little afraid.

"Tell me."

Irene knows what he is asking. If what just happened between them was another move in their game, she will lie to him, and he will find a way to catch her out. Check, check, checkmate.

On the other hand, she could tell him the truth. _Show me your hand, Irene. We can play this game together._

Irene drops her gaze. She can feel Sherlock waiting.

"I knew him." She repeats. She feels Sherlock let out a soft breath. Her heart is still pounding uncomfortably. "I was eleven years old – I'd just started secondary school. I was – very ordinary, back then.”

Sherlock makes a disagreeing noise in the back of his throat, and Irene smiles at him.

“I _was_. On the outside, anyway. Well, I was in the canteen one day and I realised that there was someone staring at me. Jim – though I didn’t know his name then. He was just leaning against a wall, and looking at me and smiling. Then he came up to me and pointed at this other kid and said _I bet you can make that boy over take off his shirt_. And I replied _Why would I want to do that?_ And he just said _You're bored_."

"I take it the boy in question lost his shirt?"

"That was easy. I told one of the girl's standing by the coffee machine that I'd seen him spying on her in the girl's changing rooms. She tipped a cup of hot coffee over him. I went back to the older boy and told him you're right, that was fun. After that Jim and I began to set each other challenges – things around school we’d have to make happen. It was a game with only one rule, we couldn't be obvious. No one could trace the fire in the records office, the first year tied up in the science store room, back to us. We never did anything ourselves. And we were careful not to be seen together too often – just a casual meeting every now and then, he'd brush past me in the corridor and whisper in my ear, I'd slip a note into his locker. It was - exciting."

"Until?" Sherlock is looking at her carefully. Irene looks at him curiously, wondering how he had known there was an until. He merely raises his eyebrows at her.

"There was a boy. The boyfriend of a friend of mine – not a real friend of course, but the kind I was seen with. He went to a different school, didn’t realise what the rest of us knew, that Jim wasn’t someone to make angry. He started teasing Jim a little one day – nothing serious, but Jim was furious. He told me to help hi plan his revenge. I was to get him to sign up for this swimming competition, make sure he reached the finals. I imagined Jim was planning to make him lose in some humiliating way, but as it turned out he had something rather different planned."

" _Clostridium botulinum_."

"Yes," Irene says, surprised. "We had quite a row about it."

It was a row that had ended up with Jim’s hands around her throat, in fact. Irene can still remember that moment, the blinding clarity of the thought that crossed her mind _he’ll kill me too._

"So, you stopped seeing him."

Irene shrugs. "Not immediately. But we grew apart. Jim was less keen on our games now that he'd discovered the joy of bumping people off, and that wasn’t really my scene. And I was finding new interests too – discovering myself, boyfriends, girlfriends…"

"Sex and death. You could have made quite the team. Jim must have been disappointed that you didn't want to play anymore."

"If he was, I didn’t find out. I moved away to London shortly after. We lost touch for the next ten years or so - until I met Shedman and was told he'd formed a criminal organisation in the mean time."

Irene unwinds Sherlock’s hands from her wrist, instead moving his against her cheek, so that he is cupping her face. "There." She says softly, "I've told you everything."

Sherlock looks at her, thoughtful. "Not everything," he says. "But enough.”

"Yes," Irene repeats quietly. "Enough."

Sherlock moves his hands away, fingers brushing her face. Irene shifts on the bed, moving closer, and Sherlock moves his arm around her waist, allowing her to lean her head against his chest. His hand fits so neatly into the curve of her waist, as though it belonged there. They sit for a long time, silently in the half dark the detective's heart thundering in Irene’s ears.

________________________________________

 

Fiona meets her in reception. Irene has to stop short for a moment in frank surprise at the abrupt change in the woman's appearance. Fiona is wearing a chic black dress, her hair is loose over her shoulders, and her makeup is impeccable. The dowdy mouse-coloured woman of their previous encounters appears to have vanished.

"Well, are you ready?" Fiona flicks a lipstick whiplash of a smile at Irene.

"Perfectly." Irene says as coolly as she can manage.

"Excellent. I've taken the liberty of organising us a taxi."

Irene keeps a tight grip on her handbag in the taxi. She has a revolver in her purse and Sherlock's number or speed dial in case this encounter should prove to be less wholesome than it appears. To her relief the cab heads not into the dingy outskirts of the city but towards the centre. She is being taken to…

"The Ritz Hotel. Our Employer likes to do things in style." Irene doesn't miss the implied capital letters in the epithet. Fiona isn't seem the sort to be easily impressed - this man, whoever he is, must be rather formidable. Irene straightens herself reflexively, digs out her brightest, sharpest smile.

Once inside the Hotel Irene and Fiona are led past the main dining rooms into a private sitting room. Inside it a man sits beside an open fire, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He rises as the two women enter, a genial smile on his face. Irene looks him over, trying to take in every detail she can. He is a heavily built man, broad shouldered, handsome in a conventional sort of a way, with even features and sandy coloured hair that is blurring into grey. Only his eyes give him away – their expression as they meet Irene's is searching, sharp, keen and utterly cold. Irene's self protective instincts are kicked into overdrive. _This man is dangerous._

"Miss Adler," the man says in a pleasantly silky voice. Hint of an Irish accent. Where had she heard that before? "It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

Irene watches as the man turns to hug Fiona. Fiona stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, hand brushing his chest, before turning to smile at Irene.

"Irene, this is my father, Sebastian Moran."

_Oh._

"Pleasure to meet you." Irene says as warmly as she can manage.

Moran takes her hand and gives it a rather energetic squeeze, before pulling Irene forward and kissing her on both cheeks. His breath feels hot against Irene's cheek.

"Come and sit down, ladies. I've taken the liberty of ordering some tea."

Irene takes the seat opposite Moran, while Fiona perches on the edge of his chair. She's actually simpering, Irene notes in alarm, her usually emotionless face radiant with affection.  
Moran leans back in his chair, rolling his tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He looks utterly relaxed.

"Well, Miss Adler. I am very pleased to meet you at last. I don't know if you know this but I've been rather a fan of your work for some time. My business partner used to sing your praises quite excessively."

"That's very flattering." Irene says. "Unfortunately I can't say I've heard much about you."

Moran smiles indulgently.

"Daddy likes to keep out of the limelight," says Fiona.

"Very wise."

"Yes. It's a pity my partner didn't employ the same strategy." Moran sighs. "Poor dear Jim. A great mind, you know, but he had a tendency to get – over involved. That intellect of his. I told him, if you want to get rid of Sherlock Holmes, there is nothing wrong with simply employing a sniper. I'd have done it myself. But, no. Jim had to go and confront him, and it was the ruination of him."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Adler. We've been trying to keep it quiet but I don't mind telling _you_. I'm afraid Jim is dead."

Irene blinks and tries to look surprised. "I'm very sorry to hear it."

"Yes, tragic thing. Still life goes on. And Jim left me a few little messes to clean up."

"Did he?"

"Yes, and you see, that's where you come in. I hope you don't mind me cutting straight to business."

"Not at all."

"You see we have a job for you – rather an important one, in fact. The reputation, or lack thereof, of our organisation rather depends on it."

Irene leans forward, opening her eyes wide. "You can rely on me, I assure you."

"So Fiona has told me." Moran reaches up to coil a hand around his daughter's waist, absent mindedly. Fiona arches, cat-like, into his touch. Irene looks away hastily.

"Unfortunately," Moran continues. "There are those who seem to have found Sherlock Holmes' death in some way inspiring. A few foolish people have even taken it into their heads in to try to speak out against our organisation. One person has been particularly troublesome. We need him silenced."

Irene blinks. "By silenced you mean….."

Moran and Fiona exchange a look.

"We'd prefer if you could persuade him to keep his mouth shut." Fiona says. "Though, failing that, other strategies may have to be employed."

"I wanted to have him killed outright." Moran sighs. "But Fio here thinks not."

"That could be counterproductive. " Fiona says crisply. "If we murder him we run the risk of turning him into some kind of martyr, and attracting even more scrutiny to ourselves. On the other hand he could be rather useful to us if you do your job well. If you could persuade him to recant his accusations publicly it could silence our opponents forever."

Moran leans forward, cold eyes fixed on Irene. "We have reason to believe that you are the right person for this job. But I warn you, this is very high priority. We will not tolerate screw ups."

Irene looks back at him steadily. "I don't screw up."

"I hope for your sake that that is true."

"I'm sure Irene will perform admirably, Daddy. She is, after all, uniquely qualified."

"I am?" Irene turns to look at Fiona. "Uniquely?"

Fiona looks at her, a gleam of malicious amusement in her eyes. "Oh, yes. I believe you and your new mark are old friends." She reaches into her briefcase and hands Irene a file.

Irene opens it. Inside it is a picture of a man standing in a church yard, head bent, fists clenched. She can't see his face but Irene remembers that military stance, that particularly stubborn set to the shoulders that speaks of army discipline and a wary, practical nature.

Fiona leans forward a little, sharp green eyes fixed on Irene, watching her reaction.

"You remember John Watson, don't you?"

Irene swallows, and makes herself smile back at Fiona. Sherlock is not going to like this at all.


	12. Memento Mori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long and angsty, people. Long and angsty.

The rain is coming down in sheets as Irene makes the dash from her taxi and into the clinic. Inside she shivers, damp jeans clinging to her legs. At least the clinic is warm, although frankly that is all that can be said for it. Irene looks around unimpressed at the drab little waiting room, all dingy carpets and plastic chairs filled with the sick and suffering.

"It'll be about fifteen minutes, I'm afraid. We're running late." The woman at the reception tells her without looking up. Irene finds herself a seat between a woman with a mewling toddler on her lap and a long haired teenager with a persistent sniff.

 _It looks like flu but is, in fact, the result of regular drug use_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock's sounds in her head. _Solvent abuse the most likely candidate._

 _Oh, do be quiet. We aren't deducing now_ , Irene tells herself.

It is well over thirty five minutes, in fact, before Irene's name is called. Irene spends the time tapping her foot and cursing whatever influenza scare has stripped the clinic of its magazines. Opposite her a middle aged woman ushers in a nodding white haired old lady. Mother and daughter, no doubt. Irene recognises the expression on the younger woman's face –two parts misery, one part consciousness of her own virtue. Look at me, Mummy, aren't I doing well?

Irene has to look away, anger flashing through her like white heat.

"Miss Adams?"

A sandy head pokes itself around the corner and Irene rises, keeping her head ducked. It is better if he doesn't recognise her just yet.

Irene follows Dr Watson into his office, and watches as he sits at his desk. Dr Watson, picks up a file and scans it before looking at her with a welcoming smile.

"How can I help you today, Miss-" He freezes as she steps forward into the light.

"Dr Watson." Irene watches as his fingers part, dropping the file softly onto the desk, papers spilling out of it onto the floor.

There is a moment of startled silence as John Watson stares at her. Then his jaw settles into a grim line. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"I made an appointment." Irene says.

"Those appointments are for patients," John says jerkily, getting to his feet. "People who are actually ill. Not for blackmailers and terrorists who incidentally are _supposed to be dead_. How did you manage it this time? You even had Mycroft Holmes convinced."

Irene shrugs. "I have my methods."

John seems to shudder slightly, and Irene realises belatedly that that was a rather Sherlock-like turn of phrase. "I think you should leave."

"Don't you want to know why I am here, John?"

"Not particularly, no."

"There are," Irene hesitates. John Watson is perceptive, and he already distrusts her. She can't overplay this. She drops her voice a fraction of an octave, tries to inject a sense of vulnerability in her body language. "There are things I need to say to you."

"Well, that is a pity. I'm not interested in anything you have to say."

"Please, Dr Watson… John. You need to hear this."

John folds his arms. "Whatever it is you want, I haven't got it. He didn't leave me with anything, certainly nothing I'm passing on to you. So. I think it's best you just leave."

Irene takes a step closer, opening her eyes wide in appeal.

"John - I want to help you."

John laughs out loud at that. "Really?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, altruism isn't one of those traits I associate with people who blackmail their own government and trick innocent people into giving out sensitive information."

"You're angry with me."

"Of course I am. Any British citizen would be."

Irene tilts her head. "That isn't the real reason that you're angry."

"Oh, isn't it?" John seems on the verge of losing his temper now.

"No. You're angry because I'm not the person you wanted to see walk back into your office brought back to life. Am I?"

There is a short silence in which John and Irene stare at each other, and Irene sees something flicker deep in John Watson's eyes. Then he turns rigidly on his heel and picks up the phone.

"Sarah, Code Three. I have a drug seeker in here, she's becoming aggressive."

Irene gives John a sad smile, holds up her hands in surrender. "All right, I'm leaving."

She notes that John leaning forward, holding on to the edges of the desk, as the door swings shut.

 

***

Irene is about five metres down the street when her phone starts buzzing. She rolls her eyes as she picks up.

"Sherlock?"

"You weren't in there very long."

"Keeping tabs on me again?"

"Always."

"I was in there for thirty five minutes."

"Yes, and only five of them spent with your mark. Did he throw you out?"

"Yes."

Sherlock huffs.

"Did you really expect anything different? He was hardly going to welcome me with open arms."

There is a long silence. Then, "I don't have to remind you of the stakes here, Irene…."

"You don't need to remind me of anything." Irene snaps. "You need to back off and _let me do my job._ "

"Fine." Sherlock says. There is a pause. "Shall I expect to see you in the hotel for dinner?"

"Not for a while. I might scout about here for a while."

"All right." Sherlock says. "He often goes to the Queen's Head after work, to blow off steam."

"Noted."

"Irene."

"Yes?"

There is a moment of hesitation at the other end of the line.

"Perhaps we should order room service. If you won't be back until late."

"All right." Irene says at last. "I'll see you soon. Sweetheart."

She hears Sherlock blow out a breath at the other end of the line, whether out of irritation or amusement Irene can't tell, before hanging up the phone.

Irene puts it away in her pocket, and straightens her shoulders. Sherlock's emotional crises can be weathered later. For now she has a job to do.

***

Irene spends the afternoon making discreet enquiries. According to the file Fiona gave her John Watson appears to be a creature of habit: Irene decides to visit the coffee shop which John apparently visits every morning to pick up his mid morning coffee. It's a quiet period, post-lunch and pre-afternoon coffee break, so Irene takes the opportunity to strike up a conversation with the barista. She is a young woman, pretty in a very English way, blonde hair and pink cheeks. Irene notes the dreamy expression on her face, the copy of a romance novel discreetly tucked behind the counter. It's easy to figure out what angle to take.

"Busy day, was it?" she asks sympathetically.

"Oh, not too bad." The girl shrugs. "I've got some time before the afternoon rush, at least."

"I suppose you get a lot of regular customers coming in here? Repeat visits?"

The girl looks at her curiously.

Irene ducks her head and pretends to look embarrassed. "It's just I was in here the other morning, and there was this cute guy – I should have asked for his phone number but I bottled it and, well. I was kind of hoping to see him again…"

"Oh," The girl's face brightens up a little, interested. "What did he look like?"

"Well, he was in his late thirties, I'd say, not terribly tall. He had dark blonde hair, blueish eyes – a little weather-beaten but in a cute sort of way, you know? He was wearing a white coat so I thought he might be a doctor….."

The girl's eyes widen. "I know exactly who you mean. That's Dr Watson! He's in here almost every day. Such a nice guy… it was a pity about…" the girl stops, biting her lip.

"About?" Irene prompts.

"Oh, I don't know if you heard – it was in the news actually. He had a friend, a sort of detective or something, but it turned out he was a fraud and then he killed himself. Poor Dr Watson hasn't been the same since. He used to be so friendly, chatting with all of us, but now he barely speaks. Poor man." The girl sighs gustily.

"That sounds awful."

"Well, maybe a little romance will be just what he needs."

"Perhaps," Irene smiles. "You don't know if he has a girlfriend, or anything…?"

"I don't think so. Even before the, you know, the suicide, I never heard him mention anyone. And since then – he always seems so alone. Well, except.."

"Except?"

"There was one time, about a month ago. He met a woman here, they were talking for a long time, it looked sort of intense. I actually wondered if he was having an affair since the woman was wearing a wedding ring. But then as they left they said something about a 'our next group meeting' so I think maybe it was something else. And I haven't seen him with anyone since."

"Ah. Well, perhaps I'll try to bump into him again." Irene says smiling widely at the girl. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

"Not a problem ," the girl smiles. "You don't want me to pass on a message or anything to him…?"

"Oh, no, no." Irene says. "I don't want him to think I'm stalking him – so embarrassing."

"Well good luck." The girl says. "I hope things work out for you. It would be nice to see something good happen to Dr Watson for a change. He seems like such a nice guy."

Irene smiles, and drops a pound into the tip jar before she leaves.

***

John Watson is already sitting hunched over a pint when enters the bar. She orders a white wine from the bar before pulling over a bar stool to sit beside him. He gives her one indifferent look before returning to his pint.

"Not giving up, then?"

"Did you think I would?"

"No." John takes a deep swig of his beer, and then smiles darkly down into the bottom of the glass. "I know your type."

Irene lays a hand very gently on his arm. "I can't imagine what you must be going through, right now."

John shrugs.

"I know you don't think very well of me, but I promise I'm not here to cause trouble this time."

"No?" John looks at her cynically.

"No." They watch as the bar tender brings Irene her drink. Irene takes a sip and winces. She ought to know better than to order wine in an establishment like this.

"I – cared about him too, you know. In my own way."

"Is that so?" John says indifferently, wiping his mouth.

"How are you holding up?" Irene asks.

"Fine. You know. I've seen friends die before. I was a soldier, it comes with the territory. At least I know he died fighting for something."

Irene makes a noise in the back of her throat at this and he glares at her.

"He did. I don't know exactly what made him jump but I know that much. Moriarty was evil and Sherlock went down fighting him."

"Then you don't believe that he…"

"Of course I don't." John snaps.

Irene makes herself bite her lip, looking away.

Abruptly, John pushes his glass away, getting to his feet.

"Come on. I want to show you something."

He walks away without glancing back to see if she is following. Intrigued, Irene abandons her drink to go after him.

John walks briskly and Irene has to run to catch him up on the busy street. "Where are we going?" she asks him.

John looks at her sideways. "Baker Street," he says briefly.

It takes twenty minutes to walk to Sherlock and John's old flat, and neither of them speak for the duration of it. Once there John rings the bell and Mrs Hudson lets them in. The flat has an unlived in air. The furniture has been piled on one side on the room along with a large collection of cardboard boxes. Irene shivers and pulls her coat around her.

"You moved out then?"

John doesn't reply, but begins rooting around in one of the boxes. "Here," he says at last. He is holding something in his hands – a small black box. Irene moves to take a closer look.

"My phone?"

"You said it was your life." John says, and in a voice that carries a heavy weight of sarcasm.

"It was," Irene runs her fingers over the smooth familiar surface.

"He kept it, you know. Technically it was government property, evidence of a very serious crime, but he insisted on having it. He'd take it out sometimes when he thought I wasn't looking. Touch it. Read through the old messages."

Irene bites her lip. "I don't understand."

"You said the reason I was angry was because you were alive and not Sherlock. Well, that isn't true. I'm angry because- because he didn't know that you were alive. Because he seemed to, I don't know, care about you, maybe even love you and you – you should have told him."

Irene drops her gaze. She isn't supposed to tell to John about what happened in Karachi – she and Sherlock had agreed upon that (it is a small step from knowing that Sherlock had staged Irene's death to inferring that he faked his own.)

"You know how he died?" John asks, arms folded over his chest.

"Of course,"

"You know he called me before he jumped? Sometimes I've wondered if there was anything I could have said that would have stopped him. He used to say he only had one friend. But that isn't enough, is it? One friend, it doesn't weigh enough when things are balanced up. It isn't enough to stop a person from jumping. He should have had more. If he had…" John trails off.

"You really think he wouldn't have jumped if he'd known I was alive?" Irene asks.

"I don't know. We won't ever know now, will we?"

Irene looks at him as steadily as she can."John, I promise you - if I could have prevented this, I would have."

John smiles bitterly, turning away. "You can take the phone, if you want." He says. "God knows I have enough of Sherlock's junk to sort through."

Irene nods, and turns to leave. "Irene? Don't come here again."

Irene smiles at him from the door, and shakes her head a little sadly. "I'm sorry, John. But I think you might need me."

***

"Honey, I'm home!" Irene kicks her shoes off as she enters the hotel room. Sherlock is sitting perched on their desk surrounded by (Irene raises her eyebrows) several tray full of room service food.

"And you appear to have fixed dinner for me. What a good little housewife you are."

Sherlock glares at her. "I needed a distraction."

"So I see." Irene swipes a strawberry from one of the plates and pops it in her mouth. "Did you order everything on the menu?"

Sherlock shrugs. "It was an experiment. What did John say?"

Close to, Irene can see that Sherlock's body is taut, almost vibrating with a subtle tension.

Irene considers, picking her words carefully. "He said he didn't trust me."

"You remedied that, I hope?"

"Trust isn't built in a day, you know. But he was talking to me at the end, so you know. There's no need to give up hope yet."

Sherlock nods, pressing his lips together thinly.

"He gave me something of yours."

"Oh yes?"

Irene pulls out her phone from her pocket and shows it to him. "I didn't know you'd kept it."

Sherlock looks down at it for a moment, blankly and then looks up at Irene. His expression is oddly hesitant as if he had been caught out doing something he shouldn't, and wasn't entirely sure what the reaction would be. Irene can't help the smirk that spreads across her face, and all of a sudden Sherlock's mouth tugs upward at one corner.

"Well, I couldn't let Mycroft keep it. Imagine his greasy hands pawing all over it."

"Awful," Irene says.

"And of course, you had done me the honour of changing the password to my own name."

"Very fitting really."

Sherlock is smiling at her properly now, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You know, perhaps we should cover the food - it will keep til later. I could think of things I'd rather be doing." Irene says, stepping forward to place a proprietary hand on his chest.

"Oh, yes?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. Irene runs her hand down his shirt front, curling her fingers so that he can feel the edge of her nails. He'd seemed to rather like the marks she'd left on his back last time, she was rather keen to give him a second set.

Sherlock moves forward slowly, his breath hot against her hair. She tilts her head up and finds his mouth. He kisses her hesitantly, mouth soft and warm, tongue brushing lightly against her own. Irene reaches up to cup place a hand against his cheek.

And then he pulls away, face abruptly shuttering. Irene follows his gaze – the phone on the desk.

"You're thinking about John."

Sherlock walks away from her, picking up the phone and shoving it into his pocket. "For all we know a sniper has him in the crosshairs right now. I don't trust them to wait."

Irene tilts her head, looking at him, evaluating. His hair is messy, he's been pulling at it. The suit jacket he is wearing is crumpled. His eyes avoid hers.

"You do know that this isn't your fault, don't you?"

Sherlock shoots her a disgusted look. "Whose fault is it, then?"

Irene raises her eyebrows. "How about the criminal organisation pointing the sniper rifles?"

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "I assumed that my friends were out of danger. That after my death they would not be targeted. It was stupid of me."

Irene rolls her eyes. "Yes, your lack of precognitive ability is very disappointing."

Sherlock looks at her uncertainly.

"Fine." Irene says. "We'll do it your way. Sit down, eat something and tell me how you are responsible for all the ills in the Universe. Never mind that I can think of at least seventy two more interesting ways to spend our time. Go on. Sit."

Sherlock sits and Irene shoves the nearest plate of food in front of him. Sherlock looks at it blankly for a long moment. Then he looks up at her frowning.

"Seventy-two?"

Irene smiles broadly and takes a step towards him. "Now you're turning your curiousity in the right direction."

 

***

After their (satisfactorily delayed) dinner, Irene has a shower and then settles herself in bed to think. While she obviously has to keep up an optimistic front for Sherlock and the Morans she is far from confident of her ability to pull off this particular mission. John Watson is an excessively stubborn human being, and Irene is fairly low on the list of people qualified to gain his trust. She glances at Sherlock who again appears to be brewing up his own personal storm in his favourite sulking spot by the window. This is going to be a hard line to walk, indeed.

***

Irene doesn't remember falling asleep but apparently she did because at two o clock in the morning she jolts awake, the sound of her phone buzzing in her ears. She picks it up and listens, delivers a few tight lipped acknowledgements and then hangs up as quickly as she can.

"Irene?"

Sherlock's face, green in the light of the mobile screen hovers close to her own.

Irene shrugs and turns away. "It's nothing."

There is a long moment in which Irene can feel Sherlock's eyes on her back. Then the covers shift, a warm hand moving to around her waist. Irene closes her eyes tightly and tries to ignore everything but the sound of Sherlock's breath in the dark.

***

"Evening." Irene settles onto the bar stool next to John Watson. He glares at her.

"Am I going to have to find a new local?"

"You could certainly try, but I doubt it would do you any good." Irene smiles at him sweetly. John returns it with a wide and very sarcastic smile.

"I should get myself a restraining order."

"Against a dead woman? I'd like to see that."

"I could apply to Mycroft Holmes."

"You could. But you won't."

"Oh? And why not?"

"Because you hate him almost as much as you hate me."

John smiles more genuinely this time. "True. Don't assume that will stop me forever, though."

"I won't."

They sit for a while in a silence that is almost companionable, sipping at their sub-par drinks.

"My mother died," Irene says conversationally, at last.

John turns to her, brow furrowed. "Oh?" he is obviously trying to gauge whether this is some peculiar sort of ploy.

"Yes. Last night actually."

John blinks at her. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Irene shrugs. "It wasn't as though we liked each other."

John nods, digesting this. Irene twirls the stem of her wineglass in her fingers, watching the way the light is caught in the yellow liquid.

"What do people do?" she asks, at last. "In these situations."

To his credit, John doesn't ask what situation she means. He only frowns a little, and then sighs. "I don't know. Cry, get drunk, punch a pillow. Maybe go on to punch a couple of harder objects."

"I don't need any of that. I'm not grieving. I barely knew her, really. It's just that somehow I feel - incomplete."

John's eyes are a little softer, now. "Maybe - you need closure. To say goodbye."

"I don't have any regrets." Irene says instead. "I wouldn't have done anything differently."

"You're lucky, then." John says wryly.

Irene is quiet for a long time, drumming her fingers against the side of the wine glass. "How exactly does one say goodbye to someone who is dead?"

" I don't know. You," John taps his fingers on the side of the pint glass. "Could write them a letter, put up a memorial. Read a eulogy. Think about – what they would have wanted. How they would have liked to say goodbye, if they'd had a chance."

"She'd have wanted something bland and meaningless. Keep up appearances, and say nothing of any consequence whatsoever."

John looks at her speculatively for a long moment. "Then give her that." His voice is gentler and quieter than anything Irene has heard for a long time. For a brief moment, Irene finds herself wanted to let go, to lean back on the hideously uncomfortable bar stool and tell him everything.

No. Focus.Irene sucks in a breath."Is that why you're going around telling people that Moriarty was real?" Irene asks. "You're memorialising him?"

John takes a gulp of beer, then wipes his lips. "Nope. I do that because it's true."

"The tabloids are still writing articles about you, you know. Saying you are deluded, or that you are a con man yourself."

"I don't care what they think." John says.

"Is it really what Sherlock would have wanted?" Irene asks gently, leaning forward. "Wouldn't he have wanted to see you getting on with your life – being happy? This doesn't seem… healthy."

"Yeah, well, maybe happy and healthy isn't the most important things right now." John says. "This isn't just about Sherlock, you know. Moriarty and his people are still out there, pulling strings, hurting people. Someone needs to stand against that. Sherlock was the only one with the guts to do it before, but he isn't here now. It falls to me."

"If you're right," Irene says. "Then you're putting yourself in terrible danger."

John glares at her. "If I'm right?" he says. "You know I am. You worked with them for Pete's sake."

Irene bites her lip, looking away. "I've taken up too much of your time, John." She gets up.

"Wait," John says, catching at her sleeve. "What did you mean if?"

Irene looks at him for a long moment, a look designed to show weariness, sorrow, just a touch of pity.

"I'll speak to you later, John."

And she leaves him staring after her.

***

"Going well, is it?" Fiona shows up like a bad penny on the corner of the street.

Irene raises her eyebrows at her. "You know, for the heir apparent to a criminal empire you certainly spend a long time lurking on street corners."

Fiona smiles at her. "You've been in the pub."

"Dr Watson's local."

"Has he conceded yet?"

"Not yet. It's still early days."

"Hmm, about that." Fiona says. "I hate to hurry you, but Daddy's getting impatient. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to speed things up."

Irene looks at her dubiously. "Speed things up how?"

"You have a week." Fiona says.

Irene stops in her tracks. "A week? That isn't possible…"

"I'm sorry, Irene. I did try to reason with him, but you know how men are."

Fiona doesn't look sorry. Her cheeks are faintly flushed, a smile dimpling the corner of her mouth.

"What happens if I can't do it in that time?"

"Well, then its bye bye Dr Watson, I'm afraid. Father will be disappointed but I daresay he'll forgive you." Fiona says sweetly. "Oh, here we are. You're taking the underground, yes?"

They have stopped outside a flight of steps leading to the tube station. Irene turns to stare at her.

"Fiona. You know this is impossible."

"Oh, I have faith in you, Irene." Fiona say, gaily. "Now I really must run. I have a 'gangland stabbing' to arrange in East London. Ta-ta, my dear."

Irene stands still for a long moment, watching as Fiona disappears into the crowd.

***

Sherlock goes white when she tells him.

"A week?"

"A week." Irene repeats.

Sherlock stares at her.

"I think we need a contingency plan." Irene says. "If I don't manage to-"

"You have to." Sherlock says. "You have to manage it."

"Yes, but if I can't..."

"You can - you simply haven't been trying hard enough." Sherlock curls his lip. "Or was it all a lie? All of this talk about your games, how good you are at figuring people out, was it all an act? You are as stupid and dull as the rest of them, you…"

" _Sherlock_." Irene uses her last-resort voice, the one that cracks across the room like a whip and stops the most recalcitrant clients in their tracks. Sherlock stops short, and then half turns away from her, covering his hand with his mouth.

Wordlessly she goes to the mini-bar in the corner and pours two very stiff drinks. She forces one of them into Sherlock's hand. He frowns down at it.

"I'd prefer something stronger. And preferably in a syringe."

"Tough." Irene says. She steers him to the bed and makes him sit down, before sitting beside him, knees drawn to her chest.

"I count five possible outcomes." Irene says. "Number one, I get John to recant before next Friday."

Sherlock takes a deep swallow of his whiskey. "That would be preferable."

"I agree. Number two, I don't manage it, and Dr Watson is murdered."

Sherlock's fingers tighten on the glass but to his credit he only nods.

"Number three, I don't manage it and instead of allowing Dr Watson to be murdered, we deflect the organisation's attention onto bigger target."

"Such as the newly resurrected Sherlock Holmes?"

"I can't think of anything else we could manage in such a short space of time." Irene agrees. "We don't have enough on the organisation to take them down, so we'd be throwing away everything we've worked for and probably earning us matching bullets to the head in the process. And, of course, they might still kill John anyway, just for kicks."

"Highly likely." Sherlock agrees.

"Number four – we apply to your brother. Ask him to put John into Witness Protection."

Sherlock shakes his head. "The information Moriarty had about me could only have originated from Mycroft. It's possible he supplied it himself, or he could have a security leak. I can't risk applying to him, only for word of it to get back to the Morans."

"Number five then," Irene traces the rim of her glass with one figure. "We tell John the truth. He recants publicly and allows us to continue as we planned."

Sherlock's forehead creases. "No."

"No?"

"Keeping secrets is not John's strong point. Do you remember his blog entry after you first reappeared?"

Irene winces at the memory. It was a good thing her life hadn't really been in danger. Still. "With so much at stake do you really think he wouldn't keep quiet?"

"John would never betray me consciously. But… he is not an actor, Irene. We know what close scrutiny he is under. Moriarty offered me a deal. My life, for theirs. If they realise I broke it, that I'm still alive, they may well decide to fulfil their threat. I can't risk that."

"I think you might be underestimating him."

Sherlock shakes his head, also drawing his knees to his chest. "I know him. You don't. Irene – the only way out of this is for you persuade John. Just – do whatever you have to do. "

Irene doesn't miss the way his eyes flick briefly down her body.

She straightens and looks over at Sherlock. "Just to be clear," she says. "If I had to seduce John Watson in order to complete this mission…"

Sherlock pales visibly, and he looks away. "Whatever it takes." He repeats.

Irene looks at him for a long moment, before getting up and walking to the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asks.

"I'm getting ready." Irene replies cooly. "To go and see John. That is what you want, isn't it?"

She closes the door decisively behind her.

***

She picks out her makeup carefully – clear lip gloss, a light foundation, mascara that smudges easily. She ignores the way her hands are shaking. It isn't as though monogamy is something Irene has ever had the slightest interest in. Jealousy has never been a quality she finds appealing in a lover; the idea that a person might feel owed a say in what she does with her body is faintly repellent. Irene doubts sex would be effective leverage over John, but if it had been wouldn't it be the best policy to use it? She cannot blame Sherlock for contemplating it. After all, isn't this what you do, Irene? Isn't this what he came to you for in the first place?

There. Done. Thankfully it is raining outside already so it won't take much to complete the artfully dishevelled look she is planning on adopting. Irene straightens her clothes and takes a deep breath before pushing over the door. Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, clearly frozen mid-pace.

"Irene," he says.

Irene moves to pick up the folder full of documents they had put together earlier. "I think we'll stick with Plan A for now," she says crisply.

Sherlock opens his mouth and then closes it again, nodding wordlessly.

Irene puts on her coat.

"I upset you."

"Not at all."

Irene turns to open the door, but in a second, Sherlock is at her side, a hand closing around her wrist.

"Irene,"

"Let go."

Sherlock drops her hand immediately, but still takes a step forward, crowding her back against the door.

"I meant what I said." Sherlock's voice has a rough edged quality. It seems to rumble through her. "On the beach, when we first started all of this. You aren't a tool to me."

Irene looks up at him. His face pale, serious, intent.

"I might question your judgement, your intelligence, but I don't expect you to take orders from me. I wouldn't ever expect that. That – that wasn't what I was trying to do."

Irene looks away. "I know." There is an unexpected tightness in her throat.

She does know that. Sherlock Holmes has never asked anything of her that she hasn't been able to refuse – until now. Because, she realises with a sudden rush of fear, she wants to say yes to him. There is a part of her, some soft and unspeakably vulnerable part that exists somewhere under her ribs and which has been growing like a tumour since they first met. That part has started to want to give Sherlock whatever he wants, whatever he needs, regardless of logic, reason or even her own interests.

"What are we doing?" she asks Sherlock, through numb lips. Somehow his hands have moved around her waist, gripping her tightly.

"I don't know." Sherlock says, in a low voice. "I was hoping you would know."

Irene huffs a laugh, and Sherlock moves his head to smile down at her uncertainly.

"I'd better go," she says. "It's going to be murder getting a cab at this time."

Sherlock nods, straightening, and takes a step back. He catches one of her hands in his and gives it a squeeze before letting go.

"I'll see you soon."

Irene nods briskly, and then departs.

***

Dr Watson's new flat is in the West of London, a good forty minute cab drive from the hotel. Luckily the streets are relatively clear, the rain having put off any but the most determined of travellers. Irene gets the cab driver to drop her off a couple of streets from John's flat, walking the rest of the distance. It takes under a minute for John to answer (not in bed yet: good). He opens the door on the chain, staring down at her.

"What are you doing here?"

"Please John. It's freezing out here." Irene shudders.

John looks at her suspiciously, taking in her drenched clothes, smudged make up, reddened eyes.

"I have some things I need to show you." Irene says, hugging the folder to her chest.

John looks away for a moment, sighs, and then opens the door. "Fine."

Irene follows him up the stairs and into his flat. It is a drab little place, grey leather sofas, a TV, a little nook kitchen.

"I'll put the kettle on, shall I?" John says, disappearing into the kitchen. Irene seats herself on the sofa and waits.

John returns a few moments later. He looks infinitely tired, his arms folded. "What's this about, then?"

Irene lowers her eyes. "I have something to tell you. I'd been meaning to tell you straight away but – oh, John, this is difficult."

"What is it?"

Irene raises her eyes to his, her own swimming with tears.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Difficult to forget." John says."What with you parading around naked, and all."

"Yes," Irene smiles weakly. "It was the first time I met you – but it wasn't the first time I'd met Sherlock."

John frowns.

"We'd met a week before, in a greasy spoon. He paid me quite a large amount of money in order to blackmail the Royal Family, and then pretend to be on the run from some thugs he'd hired."

John continues to look at her expressionlessly.

"Frankly I needed the money – I was getting out of the dominatrix business by then. And then Sherlock decided I should play the femme fatale..."

"And blackmail the British government." John's voice is heavy with irony. "I suppose Mycroft Holmes was just playing along for a laugh as well, was he?"

"No, the information was real – Sherlock had got hold of it somehow. I think he wanted to have one over on his big brother, I gather they never liked each other much."

"Rather an elaborate way to do it." John says.

"I think he liked that." Irene whispers. "Liked spinning scenes, impressing everyone – especially you."

In the kitchen the kettle stops boiling with an audible click.

"Get out." John says quietly.

Irene shifts in her seat. "You don't believe me – that's understandable, but I have evidence, John, look." She opens her folder and upends it over the desk, scattering documents everywhere. "Emails, letters, bank transfers. I kept everything – didn't know when it would come in useful. And then – when I heard of everything you'd been through, everything you were suffering I realised - you deserved to know the truth."

"Very noble of you. Out."

"Just take a look at them, John. Here, isn't this Sherlock's writing?"

"I'm sure they are excellent forgeries." John's hand is clenching and unclenching, Irene notes, chest swelling. "Tell me, if Sherlock was the one who orchestrated that whole Belgravia business, why did he lose to you? You tricked him into giving you that password. If he was so desperate to impress everyone why would let himself be outwitted?"

"He said that –oh what was it? People were interested in his failures – they made him seem more human. He said you told him that."

John draws in a breath.

"You did say that, didn't you? How could I possible know about that if he hadn't told me?"

"Any number of ways."John says through gritted teeth.

"Are you sure?" Irene says softly, getting up from the sofa and stepping towards him. This seems to spur John into action. He moves forwards, putting a rough hand on her back.

"Get," John pushes her towards the door. "Out of my flat. Now."

"All right," says Irene. "All right, John. Just – here let me give me your mobile number, in case you want to talk again…"

"Can't imagine why I'd want to do that."

John lets the card with Irene's number fall to the floor as he all but shoves her out of the door.

"Promise me you'll read through those documents, John!" Irene shouts, as the door closes in her face.

After that there is little to do but wait, and hope that John will contact Irene again of his own accord. As usual Sherlock is his delightful self, in other words, a ball of simmering tension eating up all the oxygen in their little hotel room.

Irene heads to the bar again, and watches the world go by, thinking. Unlike Sherlock, she is a believer in contingency plans, and if this doesn't work…

"We have to set a deadline." Sherlock joins her in his Hector disguise. "We can't wait forever."

"Still nothing on John's blog?" When she'd left Sherlock had been refreshing the page every thirty second.

"Nothing."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything."

Sherlock shook his head. "John is scrupulously honest. If he genuinely believed he'd been inadvertently spreading lies, he'd want to 'fess up."

"I'll give it until the evening," Irene says, "And go again."

"I want to be involved this time." Sherlock hesitates, and then pulls a pair of ear pieces out of his pocket. "I have an idea."

" _All right._ " The voice from the earpiece crackles uncomfortably in Irene's ear. " _I'm in place. Can you see him yet?_ "

Irene scans the bar. "Not yet," She says.

" _Look to your left._ "

"Oh,"

Irene can see John, not in his normal place by the bar but perched awkwardly on a stool at a side table. He is looking at his watch.

Irene walks over. John looks up as her shadow falls over him, tensing visibly.

"I thought I'd made it clear that I didn't want to see you again."

"I just wanted to check that you were OK."

"I'm fine."

" _Did he read the documents?_ "

"Did you read the documents I left?"

John glares at her. "I looked through them."

"But you still don't believe me."

"Nope."

" _Idiot_." The voice in Irene's ear breathes disgustedly. Those documents had been painstakingly manufactured, peppered with references to things Sherlock knew that only he and John had known. It ought to have cast a shadow of a doubt into the mind of the most stalwart follower. John however is looking at Irene with unwavering dislike.

" _Sit next to him._ " The voice in Irene's ear dictates. " _Put your hand on his arm._ "

Irene rather suspects that if she put her hand on John Watson's arm right now, she might lose it, so she settles for sitting beside him.

" _Ask him what the last thing was that I told him._ "

"What did Sherlock say to you," Irene asks softly. "Before he died?"

John's expression is shuttered. "He said goodbye."

" _Before that._ " Sherlock's voice cuts in impatiently.

"Did he say anything else?" Irene says.

John looks away. "He asked me to clear his name."

There is a ringing pause in Irene's ear, before Sherlock spits out.

" _He's lying._ "

"Are you sure that's what he said?"

John looks directly at her. "I'm not a liar, Miss Adler."

"John!" They are interrupted by a sandy haired woman, who holds out her arms to give John a hug. "Thank goodness, I thought I'd come to the wrong pub. He's here guys!" She waves a group of her friends over.

Irene notes a fat man in glasses and a lab coat, a boy in a paint stained hoodie, a silver haired man in a slightly rumpled suit, a young woman with long hair in a braid, a nervous looking young man in designer clothing, and a couple of scruffy looking people who looked like they belonged on street corners.

Sherlock groans in her ear. " _John, you idiot…_."

"So, we're all here," the fat man with the glasses says, rubbing his hands. His eye catches Irene's. "And who's this? New recruit?"

"No. This woman was just leaving." John says pointedly.

"Actually, I was thinking of getting a drink." Irene says. "Can I get one for you, Mr-"

"Dr actually," the man says cheerfully, apparently not noticing John shaking his head at him, eyes widened. "Mike Stamford."

"Oh, I've heard your name. Friend of Sherlock Holmes, weren't you?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking." His eyes narrow. "You're not a journalist, are you?"

"Certainly not." Irene says. "Actually I was a friend of Sherlock's too. I was so sad to hear about what happened to him."

Mike's eyes widen, looking across at John. "So she is one of us?"

"She isn't-"

"Why not let her join us, then, eh? What's the harm?"

John is looking at Irene very intently all of a sudden. Suddenly his brow unknots.

"On second thoughts," he says. "Yes. Brilliant idea. Come and join us, Irene. I've booked us a space in one of the back rooms, come on guys."

Irene follows the chattering little group into a back room. They seat themselves around a circular table, all nattering with enthusiasm. Irene finds a seat beside Stamford.

"So, what is all this about?" Irene asks Stamford.

"Oh, it's just a little meeting," Stamford says. "For people who don't believe what was said about Sherlock Holmes. We organise things…"

"Small things, a bit of graffiti and letter writing mostly." John cuts across Stamford. He is still standing by the door looking at them all.

"And have you told them what I told you?" Irene asks John. He smiles at her, and Irene suddenly realises that there is something rather dangerous lurking behind that smile.

"Oh, I intend to." He takes a step closer to her. "It is such a pleasure to have you with us at last, Irene."

" _Irene_ ," A voice sounds in her ear. " _Get out of there, it's a t-_ "

Suddenly John Watson lunges forwards, pushing back her hair. Irene hears Stamford draw in a breath as John efficiently yanks the earpiece from Irene's ear and switches it off. Out of nowhere a gun has appeared in John's hand.

"So," he says calmly, his posture utterly relaxed. "Mind telling us who you are really working for?"


	13. Acceptable Risks

There is a ringing silence in which everyone in the room stares at Irene. She licks her lips.

"This isn't what you think."

"No? What is it then?" The silver haired man in the corner seat leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised.

"It's-"

"Yes?"

The best lies are composed of the truth.

Irene takes a deep breath. "I'm working… for Sherlock Holmes."

The boy in the paint stained hoodie huffs out a half laugh. The girl with the long hair, however, tilts her head, frowning slightly.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." John says in harsh voice. "Is that really the best lie you can come up with?"

Irene clenches her fists. _Now would really be a good time to do something, Sherlock_ , she thinks.

"I wasn't alone Karachi," Irene says. "Sherlock was there, he - saved my life. And then afterwards, after he saved me he said that if anything happened to him I had to return the favour: to work on bringing down Moriarty's organisation and to protect you. I've been playing double agent for Moriarty's organisation for the past six months, collecting information. They're watching you. I – I was trying to warn you."

Across the table the mobile belonging to the girl with the long hair bleeps.

John looks at her steadily for several moments, and then says, "Sherlock thought you were in America."

Irene raised her eyebrows at him. "He never lied to you?"

John's expression flickers momentarily and for a moment Irene thinks she might be able to convince him, but then he John shakes his head. "Even if he had, you're selfish. You wouldn't put yourself in danger for no reward, for the sake of a dead man. You're working for Moriarty." He shifts his finger on the weapon pointing it higher. "Tell me."

"John," Irene says, as calmly as she can manage. "We both know you aren't going to shoot me."

John raises his eyebrows slightly.

Irene swallows."Please - Can't we just-"

Abruptly the lights above them flicker and go out, plunging the room into pitch darkness. There is a stumbling sound, somebody swears, something drops to the floor, and then a soft hand closes around Irene's wrist.

"This way," a voice breathes in her ear. Irene lets herself be pulled to the back door. There is a sudden rush of cold air Irene stumbles out of the room into a corridor. In the dim light coming from a far away window, Irene can see the girl with the long hair.

"Out the back," the girl whispers, and tugs Irene down the corridor, out into a messy back yard. Sherlock is standing, pale and scowling, by the bins.

The girl beside her lets go of Irene's wrist and gives a squeak. She runs over to Sherlock and gives him a hug.

"Molly, we don't have time for this," he says irritably, pushing her away. He gives Irene a brief searching look, before grabbing hold of her wrist and pulling her behind him down the side passage and onto the busy main street. Molly follows, chattering.

"It's been such a long time, Sherlock, and I didn't know if you were OK, or if you were even still _alive_ or-"

"Shut up." Sherlock snaps. He glances around him scowling, before ducking into a side alley and turning to glare at Molly. "What were you doing joining in with John's foolhardy schemes?"

Moll raises an eyebrow. "You told me to keep an eye on him."

"I also told you to stay _safe_. What part of that equates to 'form an extremely obvious and ineffective resistance organisation and make yourself a target?' "

"Not so ineffective." Molly says, raising her eyebrows. "We've managed to convince quite a few people of the truth and last week Greg arrested one of the snipers who was working in Scotland Yard…."

"He arrested - _idiots_."

"Would anyone mind telling me what's going on?" Irene says. The woman called Molly seems to look at Irene properly for the first time since they were in the pub together. She frowns slightly as if trying to piece a puzzle together in her mind.

Sherlock jerks an arm in Molly's direction. "This is Molly Hooper – the pathologist who helped fake my death and idiot extraordinaire."

"Idiot extraordinaire who just saved your agent's skin." Molly points out, folding her arms.

"Yes. Well." Sherlock looks away. " This is Irene."

"Oh," Molly says. "You're the woman! The one Sherlock identified from…."

"Incorrectly identified." Sherlock cuts in. "Yes."

Molly's eyes are round as she looks at Irene. "Did you know he x-rayed your phone?"

"Did he now?" Irene smiles at Sherlock.

Sherlock scowls heavily. "How are you going to explain your absence to the rest of them?" he asks Molly.

"I'll tell them I thought I saw Irene running away and that I tried to follow her."

Sherlock nods. "Fine. Better get going, then."

"Yes, I suppose…" Molly hesitates. "It was good to see you again, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I don't need sentiment now, Molly."

Molly rolls her eyes right back. "I'm just saying, don't stay away too long. John misses you. We all do."

"Your opinion is noted." Sherlock says.

The girl sighs gustily and turns to leave.

"Molly," Sherlock says suddenly and then hesitates.

She turns back to look at him. "Yes?"

For some reason, Sherlock glances at Irene briefly before looking back at her.

"Thank you."

The girl smiles broadly. "No problem." And she nods to Irene before turning and leaving the alleyway, long ponytail swinging in her wake.

 

***

 

"So," Irene says, as they enter their hotel room.

"So." Sherlock agrees calmly, then snatches up a wineglass from the nearest table and flinging it hard against nearest wall. They both watch as it shatters, falling in pieces onto the carpeted floor.

"Well, if you've got that out of your system," Irene says dryly. "How about we sit down and actually work this out?"

Sherlock huffs, tugging a hand through his hair. "I underestimated him," he says. "Stupid, _stupid_ …"

"Shut up." Irene says. "Focus. We have three days to figure out what to do with this mess. You can beat yourself up after our excruciating and imminent deaths."

Sherlock sits, holding his forehead in his hands. "You can't approach John again. He's likely to either shoot you or hand you over to Mycroft."

" _I_ can't." Irene says, "But you could. It isn't like we have much to lose at this point, do we?"

Sherlock is silent for a long moment.

"There has to be another option, if I could only _think_."

"Sherlock."

"One glimpse of me walking up to John, and one of their stupid lackeys could put two and two together and this whole thing could come crashing down. Not just you and me and John, but everything we've been working towards…"

"I know," says Irene. "I know. But…."

Sherlock sighs and sits, head in his hands. He is silent for a long moment until his head snaps up.

"Fiona," Sherlock says.

"What?"

"Fiona," Sherlock repeats. He has raised his head again, eyes suddenly bright. "Describe her to me Irene."

Irene thinks. "Competent," she says at last. "Calm, calculated, deceptive, terrible dress sense. Well organised…."

"Yes, that's it exactly."

"What's it?"

"Think about it. Moriarty was the kind of man who kept all his schemes in his head, he was brilliant enough and arrogant enough, and let's face it, probably paranoid enough never to commit pen to paper. But Fiona is a very different animal, don't you think? Isn't she the kind of person who would keep a diary, an organiser, a diary, a record of what her organisation was doing from day to day?"

"Possibly…"

"We need information, and we need a lot of it, quickly. That woman has it somewhere –it might be encoded or encrypted or scratched on the inside of a cave wall but it is there somewhere. We just need to get at it. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

"All right." Irene says dubiously. "But we still need to actually get at it. Within the three day time limit."

"You said she always carries a briefcase with her."

"Ye-es. Sherlock, I doubt she carries the records to her entire organisation around with her. She isn't stupid."

"But it will have information, her personal belongings, something. If I can get a proper look at it maybe I can deduce the rest."

Irene sighs. "I don't know."

"If it doesn't work," Sherlock says . "I'll speak to John."

"As long as we don't get caught." Irene points out.

Sherlock smiles at her. "I regularly pickpocket both the best detective in Scotland Yard, and the man who is the brains behind the British Government." He says. "I don't think Fiona will prove more of a challenge than that, do you?"

 

***

 

"I don't usually allow myself to be at the beck and call of my employees." Fiona says, coming to sit down opposite Irene in the crowded café. "But your message intrigued me."

"I'm very sorry to disturb you," Irene says. "This information couldn't wait."

"Can I take your order, Miss?" A waitress approaches them.

"I'll have a mineral water."

"Cappucino for me." The edge of Irene's menu knocks over the vase on the table in front of them flooding the tablecloth with water. Irene jumps up, muttering apologies, and attempts to help the waitress mop up. In the commotion no one notices the man in the business suit stumble slightly as he passes their table.

"I'm so sorry. Nerves." Irene says, once the waitress has departed and the water has been mopped up .

"Not a problem." Fiona says. Her eyes flick under the table to check her handbag and briefcase – but they are both still there, exactly where she had left them. "So, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

"I was following Dr Watson as instructed," Irene says. "I realised he often frequents a certain pub, which is rather indifferent in terms of quality. I couldn't understand what the attraction was until I realised: there is no CCTV anywhere on the premises."

Fiona leans forward, "Go on."

Irene tells the story of her encounter with John's little army, spinning out the story as much as she dares. She is relieved to see Sherlock appear a few minutes later, this time in a school blazer, and plugged in to his ipod. Swinging his arms carelessly the school boy passes their table, only pausing momentarily when one of the wires from his ipod gets caught on the edge of the table opposite. Fiona does not appear to notice.

Sherlock had been in possession of Fiona's laptop for less than ten minutes. Irene can only hope that it was enough time for him to find out everything that they need to know.

 

****

Later that evening Sherlock and Irene pore over the information gathered from Fiona's laptop. Sherlock had taken photographs of every object inside it from several angles, as well as copying all the information from her netbook and phone onto a USB.

"Well, she plays a lot of tetris." Irene says, after looking through her phone history. "You got anything of interest yet?"

"Not yet." Sherlock is staring yet again at the photos. Phone, house keys, a hairbrush, make up bag, tissues. "Thinking."

Irene sighs and continues scanning through the computer files.

Several hours later she awakes with a crick in her neck to the sound of Sherlock gabbling away.

"In Notting Hill, if I could only - yes, yes, that's it!"

"You've found something?"

"The keys," Sherlock says. "The mud on her shoes. It has to be."

"It has to be….?"

"These keys – there are two sets, one is obviously to her home, irrelevant she wouldn't keep anything compromising there. So the second set: first key, large, notched, it opens the door to a large communally used building, say a block of offices. Second, generic , easily picked, the kind of lock for the bosses office door if she worked somewhere low risk and inconspicuous. The third however – this heavy duty, a cabinet lock, designed by a real expert – almost impossible to pick. And look at the scratches – it's been frequently used. Whatever this is, it's important enough to merit the most thorough security and she accesses it regularly. Irene. The information we need will be there."

Sherlock's cheeks are flushed, his eyes glittering. Irene feels a peculiar dropping sensation in her stomach.

"Sherlock. You do know what you are suggesting?"

Sherlock's eyes flicker for a moment, and his smile fades. "Yes. I do. I think it's out best chance."

Irene looks down at the photo of the keys.

"You said the last lock was unpickable?"

"Virtually," Sherlock says. "There is a certain locksmith however - he should be able to make us keys to match, based on this picture. He owes me a favour." 

Irene nods, still saying nothing.

"I'll go alone."

"No," Irene says with a swiftness that surprises herself. "We should do this together."

"You've no reason to risk yourself."

"I've every reason." Irene says coldly. "I know these people, I know how they work. You might need my help."

"I don't want you to."

"If you didn't want me to be involved," Irene says. "You shouldn't have come to me in the first place. We're partners, remember? You said this was our best chance. So. Let's take it."

***

 

Sherlock visits his locksmith friend in the early morning and then goes to scout out the building he believes to be the headquarters. He returns later in the afternoon with a bunch of keys and a grimly determined countenance. Irene picks up the keys to examine them.

"I hope you this man is someone you can trust."

"As much as I can trust anyone." Sherlock sits beside her on the bed. "We had best wait until it gets dark to make our move."

"All right."

All the exuberance has gone out of his face, replaced with a quiet tension. Outside the rain spatters the windows, running in rivulets down the panes. The light from the window is dim and seems to ripple over Sherlock's face, making it seem softer somehow, more vulnerable. Irene reaches out a hand to touch his cheek and to her surprise he leans into the touch, catching her palm and laying it against his cheek.

"Sherlock." He looks at her for a long moment, and then leans forward pressing his lips against hers softly. He pushes her back against the pillows, looking at her for a long still moment before brushing his lips gently on over her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead. If it was anyone else, Irene thinks, she would call this tenderness, even affection. There is a deliberateness to this, however, a quiet determination, Irene realises. He is memorising her.

"If this works, tonight," she says. "All this will be over. We won't work together anymore."

Above her Sherlock stills, breath releasing in a gust against her neck. They both wait a moment, and Irene can feel his heart beating a little too fast in her chest.

"What happens then?" Irene finds herself asking.

Sherlock seems to slump a little, laying his head against Irene's neck. "I don't know." He says.

***

They leave as soon as it gets dark. They wear non-descript clothing in dark colours, and Sherlock has given Irene a balaclava mask to wear, which she keeps in her coat pocket. "CCTV." he says shortly.

They locate the building he believes Fiona's office to be in fairly quickly, and they duck into the bar opposite for a while to observe. Just as Sherlock said, it is a tall high rise building. Through the glass doors Irene can see a reception area, potted plant and wide wooden desk.

"Several companies share the building," Sherlock mutters to her. "There's a publishing firm and a management consultancy on the first floor. Next floor up, a legal firm. And above them…"

"Janus Enterprises?"

Sherlock smiles. "Waldsheen and Green, advertising agency - allegedly." He says. "But yes, I think we can safely surmise that this is where our friends spend their time."

"You are certain?"

"If not," Sherlock says. "Then we are in for a very boring evening." He tenses. "Ah, there."

A woman has entered the reception area, stopping to speak to the receptionist. Irene recognises the brisk efficient walk, the lumpy utterly tasteless brown suit.

"Fiona," she breathes.

"Careful," says Sherlock, and Irene turns her face away from the window.

"She's gone," Sherlock says after a while, and Irene looks back. Sherlock checks his watch. They wait for fifteen minutes before Sherlock nods.

"Time to make a move."

"The receptionist is still there."

"There'll be someone on the desk at night too." Sherlock says. "Best to strike now,"

Irene grips the mask in her pocket. "All right," she says.

***

"There's a CCTV camera above the door, another behind the desk." Sherlock says as they approach. "Keep your face down and angled to the left."

Irene nods.

The revolving doors have been switched off for the night, so Sherlock uses the first key to open the side door. Irene holds her breath as he twists is, but the door clicks open with ease. Sherlock's locksmith friend was useful for something, at least.

They slip inside. The receptionist is busy sifting through a stack of papers. Sherlock ducks, slipping past the desk unnoticed into the stairwell beyond. Irene is about to follow him when the receptionist looks up, staring straight at her.

"Sorry to disturb you," Irene says quickly, thinking on her feet. "I'm the new intern at," she glances at the names on the placard behind the desk. "Silverstream Publishing. My boss forgot something in the office, so he sent me back," she holds up the keys.

The receptionist looks at her blankly for a moment, then merely nods, gesturing to a book on the table. "Better sign in." she says indifferently.

Irene does so, head ducked away from the camera, heart thumping.

Sherlock is waiting for her around the corner. "Ready?"

Irene nods and they both pull on their masks.

The door to Waldsheen and Green's office opens at the turn of the second key. It is an open plan office, desks littered with laptops, folders and the detritus of working life. The front wall of the room is glass, showing the busy orange lit street below them.

"Come on." Sherlock heads to the back of the room. There is a door with the sign 'Miss Green' on the front of it. Sherlock turns the handle – it is unlocked. It is a small room, bare except for a desk and computer and a small framed picture of a puppy. Irene glances at it, making a face. Even under a false identity Fiona has appalling taste.

"Filing cabinet," Sherlock he says briefly, slipping behind the desk to get to it.

Irene blinks – she'd been expecting a safe. How like Fiona to hide in plain sight. Irene moves closer to look at it. At first glance it looks like an ordinary cabinet Irene can see they doors are reinforced, and sure enough the lock fits Sherlock's final key. Sherlock glances up at Irene briefly, before gently turning the key. The door opens, and Irene lets out a breath of relief. Sherlock reaches a hand inside, and pulls out a slim file from inside.

"Is it…?" Irene whispers, watching as Sherlock flicks open the folder, brows contracting.

That is when she hears it. From behind her the quiet but unmistakable click, the safety catch being flicked off a revolver. Irene turns her head. Fiona stands in the door, face half in shadow. All Irene can see are green eyes, smiling at her.

"Irene Adler," Fiona says softly, stepping forward. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Fiona moves as swift as an adder striking, grabbing Irene by the shoulder and pulling her around, so that she is standing directly in front of her. Irene swallows as she feels the cold metal barrel of the gun placed against her temple. Fiona pushes her forward a step, and Irene can feel rather than see her smile widen as she looks at Irene's companion.

"And Sherlock Holmes. What a pleasure it is to meet you in person at last."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I realise that this is the second chapter in a row that has ended with Irene having a gun pointed at her. What can I say, the girl lives dangerously.


	14. The Empty Heart

There is a long silence as Sherlock looks at Fiona. "Remove that gun from my colleague's head," he says.

"Hmmm." Fiona is smiling. "I don't think you're in much of a position to be giving orders, do you?"

Sherlock stares at her, brows contracted. Every line in his body suddenly seems to radiate coldness. "I'm currently holding the blueprint for your entire organisation." He says. "If you put the gun down, I'll give it back to you."

Fiona's smile broadens. "I do admire your nerve, Mr Holmes. But I'm afraid your threats won't work this time. Jerry!"

A man materialises at her side, as quickly as if he'd been a genie released from a bottle.

"That man has something of mine, I want it back. And search him for weapons while you're at it." She raises her eyebrows as Sherlock takes a small defensive step back. "I wouldn't try to fight if I were you. Miss Adler won't thank you for it." Fiona presses the gun a little closer to Irene's cheek, and Irene finds herself wincing at the hard press of cold metal.

Sherlock glances at Irene briefly, face very pale, before allowing himself to be pushed back against the wall. The man, Jerry, runs heavy spade-like hands over Sherlock, before grunting with triumph as he pulls a gun out of Sherlock's pocket and passing it to Fiona along with the file.

"Thank you. Now tie Miss Adler to that chair," Fiona gestures to the chair, her eyes still fixed on Sherlock. "No need to be gentle."

The man grabs Irene roughly by the wrists, hauling her over to the chair. Fiona opens a desk draw, pulling out a coil of rope, which the man uses to bind Irene's hands. As he kneels to bind her ankles, he shoots her a rather nasty grin, scarred hands sliding briefly up her calf in a parody of a caress, before he pulls the ropes unnecessarily tight. Irene doesn't allow herself to flinch.

"I imagine that you aren't used to being on this side of things, Miss Adler." Fiona says. "As I understand it, you made a good living out of tying other people up. Impressive that you persuaded them to pay, Jerry here would be perfectly willing to do it for free, wouldn't you?"

"I would if they were all as pretty as this one." Jerry leers, resting his hand the back of Irene's knee, and leaning close, his breath hot against her cheek.

"Stop it." Sherlock snaps, and Irene can hear a hint of panic in his voice now.

_That won't do_ , she thinks. If they are going to get out of this situation Sherlock will need to keep his wits about him.

"Your man is very intimidating, Fiona." Irene drawls, in as bored a tone as she can manage. "I'm quite terrified. Or I would be if it weren't perfectly obvious that this isn't what he likes." She looks up at the man in front of her. He's younger than you would think at first glance, in his mid twenties. The tattoos are a recent development, as are the scars on his knuckles.

"Poor boy," she says softly. "I'm sure you think playing the tough heterosexual is a necessary career move - your mates would give you some trouble if they knew what you were really into, wouldn't they? But it must be so exhausting, pretending all the time. It's no wonder you need to head out to Hampstead Heath once a while. There's someone you meet there fairly regularly, isn't there? He does a nice line in erotic asphyxiation – that bruise certainly isn't from a fight. " Irene leans forward a little to whisper in the man's ear. "You should hold on to that one - there's plenty who have to pay for service like that."

Fiona gives a forced little laugh. "Well, she's got your number, Jerry."

The man has pulled away from Irene now, cheeks pink. "She's a lying bitch," he says, but can't meet Irene's eyes anymore. Irene looks up at Sherlock, with a smile of satisfaction. _It doesn't matter if I'm tied up - I can still own anyone I please._ Sherlock gives her a brief nod, pale lips pressing together, and Irene knows her message has been understood.

"Very impressive, Miss Adler," Fiona says, but she isn't looking at Irene – her eyes are still fixed on Sherlock. "But I don't think I want to hear any more of your little exposés just now. I need to speak to your master. Jerry, gag the woman."

Smiling grimly, Jerry pulls out a wad of cotton from his pocket and pulling Irene's face up by the chin, begins stuffing it into her mouth. Irene takes deep breath through her nose and tries to regulate her breathing, trying not to think about how easy it would be to for the cloth to suffocate her. Her eyes meet Sherlock's across the room. His face is pale but impassive. From his expression you might think he was watching a rather dull television programme. Only his hands give him away, clenching convulsively as Jerry pushes the cloth deeper into Irene's mouth.

"Good," Fiona says. "Now leave us."

Jerry looks at her in surprise. "But Miss Moran. The man…"

"He won't try anything," Fiona says.

Jerry still hesitates. "If anything were to happen… your father…"

"I've told you already, nothing will happen!" Fiona says. "You've embarrassed yourself here already, do you think I want you hanging around acting like a sexually confused moron?"

Jerry flushes dark, large hands curling into fists, but ducks his head in acknowledgment Fiona moves to the door, evidently watching him depart.

"So, Mr Holmes." She says, after a moment, smiling. "We're alone at last."

"So I see," Sherlock folds his arms, face settling itself into the mask like detachment Irene knows so well. "How long have you known who I am?" he says. "Clearly when you entered the room my presence was not a surprise to you. One would almost think that you'd planned it."

"I've suspected for a while," Fiona says. "The Musgrave con had your fingerprints all over it. But I wasn't sure until very recently."

"Targeting John was meant to force me into the open."

Fiona raises her eyebrows. "Of course. Well, you know, two birds with one stone. Dr Watson _was_ getting rather irritating." Her gaze flicks to Irene. "I should congratulate your assistant on her poker face. She had me doubting myself a few times. "

"So. You knew who I was. You could very easily have had me pulled into an alleyway and shot at any time…."

"I prefer garrotting, actually. Quieter and makes less of a mess."

"And yet you didn't."

"No." She says, smiling at him and tilting her head in a way that could almost be considered flirtatious. "Why didn't I, Mr Holmes?"

"You want something from me." Sherlock says slowly. "Something your own people can't know anything about. You were careful not to mention my name while Jerry was in the room."

"Walls have ears," Fiona says. "And so do idiots."

Sherlock's voice carries a warning note. "I've no interest in playing games. Tell me what you want."

"Very well." Irene can see the muscles of Fiona's body tighten as she pulls herself up. When she speaks her voice rings through the room like a shot. "I want you to kill Sebastian Moran."

There is a short silence.

"You want me to kill your father?"

"Was that not what you were expecting?" Fiona asks. Her tone is cool but Irene can see her hands are tightly clenched on the gun.

"All reports suggested that you were devoted to each other." Sherlock says, neutrally. His eyes, Irene notices, have also flicked to the pistol, no doubt calculating the chances of Fiona accidentally setting it off.

Fiona lets out a tight little laugh. "Have you ever had a man like my father devoted to you? Believe me, it isn't all it's cracked up to be. No, I've wanted this for a very long time."

Sherlock looks at her closely. "You already have an army full of hitmen and poisoners at your disposal. Why do you need me?"

"They aren't loyal to me." Fiona says. "In their eyes he is their leader: I am only the person who makes everything work."

"Then go to the police. You must have enough evidence to remove him from your life for a very long time."

Fiona laughs a little. "Oh yes. My mother tried that. As far as I could find out the only action they took was to hire a team to clean the blood off the walls after Daddy had finished with her."

"And what makes you think I could suceed when they couldn't?" Sherlock says.

Fiona shrugs. "Jim spoke very highly of you. He said that yours was the only mind he had seen that could match his. He said that once you decide you want something you have no pity."

Something in Sherlock's eyes flickers at that. "Good friends, were you?" he asks.

"Daddy wanted us to get married. He was always one for keeping things in the family – he saw Jim was his heir, his natural successor in the business. He couldn't see that Jim had already outstripped him by far." Fiona looks away, eyes misting over. "When Jim first joined us he changed everything. It was my father's organisation originally, you know. Under him it was an primitive thing, ugly, brutal. Jim changed all of that. Under him crime was not only organised but elegant. Beautiful. I almost loved him for that. And of course, I hoped – we did speak of one day getting rid of my father, running the organisation with just the two of us. Then he went and died on me."

Sherlock gives Fiona a long assessing look. "Whatever it was that Jim told you, I am not an assassin."

"Right now I think you are whatever I say you are, don't you?" Fiona glances pointedly at the gun in her hands, and at Irene.

Sherlock's head drops for a moment, as he frowns at the floor."What exactly are your terms?"

Fiona relaxes slightly, shoulders dropping a little at Sherlock's apparent acquiescence. "You have two days to get the job done –it is all the time I can give you before my father realises something is wrong and attempts to interfere. Once you have brought me conclusive evidence of his death, I will release Miss Adler and the files you came here looking for - with the obvious caveat that I will not be taken into custody or in any way harmed when you make your arrests."

Sherlock frowns deeply at this. "No." he says.

Fiona raises her eyebrows. "No? I happen to think those terms are rather generous."

Sherlock shakes his head decisively. "I will not cooperate with you in any way until you release Miss Adler."

Fiona's face hardens. "You'll do as I say or I will shoot her right now."

"No, you won't." Sherlock says, looking up at her, face seeming to sharpen as he looks at her. "You've waited a long time for someone like me to come along. You aren't going to throw that away for the sake of a petty show of strength. And in any case," Sherlock takes a step forward, drawing himself up. "If you actually want me to succeed in this mission which I assume that you do, I will require Miss Adler's assistance."

Fiona raises her eyebrows. "You're an intelligent man. I'm sure you can cope on your own."

Sherlock gives her a cold smile. "Jim Moriarty worked alone, didn't he?" he says. "So many minions at his bidding, including you, but he never told any of you his plans. When he came to meet me that day on the roof of St Barts, neither you nor your father had any idea what he was going to do, did you? I, on the other hand - I had help. Perhaps you should ask yourself, Miss Moran, which one of us survived that encounter?"

Fiona frowns at him. "Very well." She says at last. "You need help. I'll release Miss Adler, as soon as Jerry has taken Dr Watson into our custody in her place."

"No. I will also require Dr Watson's assistance." Sherlock says quickly.

"That's convenient." Fiona says. "Do think I'm stupid, Mr Holmes? That because you are dealing with me rather than Jim or my father, you pull the wool over my eyes?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock says quietly. "I believe you have enough intelligence to challenge even a genius like Moriarty's, and your ruthless streak certainly equals your father's. And you have a quality that neither of them ever achieved. If he were in your shoes, Jim would keep my friends in custody, for the sheer pleasure of witnessing my discomfort. Your father would see an opportunity to indulge his sadistic urges by torturing them both. But you, Miss Moran, you have _common sense_ , and that is why you will outlive them both."

Fiona Moran blinks a little at this. Irene notices her grip on the gun loosen a little. Sherlock takes a step closer to her.

"You know you don't need a hostage to make me play your game–we will, in any case, all be discovered and murdered by your father's men very shortly if matters are not resolved. I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by defying you. And so – let her go, Miss Moran."

To Irene's surprise, Sherlock reaches out a hand, closing it gently over the one that Fiona is using to hold the gun. Fiona's lips part for a moment, looking searchingly at Sherlock's face, and then she nods.

"Very well." She says. "But my people will be watching you. One hint of a betrayal and I'll have a contract on your head so high one will stop to question you before shooting."

Sherlock inclines his head in acquiescence. Fiona slides her hand out of Sherlock's grip and puts the gun in her handbag.

"I'll be expecting to hear from you both very shortly." She says crisply. "There's a knife in the drawer. I assume you want to set Miss Adler free."

Sherlock nods. "I expect to see you very soon, Miss Moran."

"I hope so."

Fiona pauses for a moment at the door, looking back at them both, before turning the handle sharply and leaving.

 

***

Sherlock is on his knees in front of Irene as soon as the door is closed, carefully tugging the gag out of her mouth.

"Are you all right?" he asks, urgently.

"Never better." Irene coughs, and winces. Sherlock's hand tightens almost painfully on her shoulder.

"Is there any water?" Irene asks. Her mouth is very dry, and tastes foul.

Sherlock jumps to his feet, pulling open the drawers in Fiona's desk and rifling through them. He returns with a bottle of water, and pen knife. He holds the bottle to Irene's lips, helping her drink. The water is a relief, and Irene takes closes her eyes, taking deep breaths and enjoying the unobstructed passage of air in and out of her lungs.

Sherlock sets to work on Irene's bindings. The ropes around her wrist have left angry red welts where they cut into her skin. Sherlock stops to examine them, thumb gently tracing over the marks, jaw set and taut.

"Sherlock," Irene says, and Sherlock lets go of her arms abruptly, looking up at her pale eyes blazing.

"I would have killed them both." He says.

"I know," says Irene. "It wouldn't have come to that."

Sherlock shivers slightly, and abruptly leans forward, pressing his forehead against Irene's. Irene lifts a hand to brush through his hair, and down over his face, tracing over his the line of his jaw.

"We did well." She says. "But Sherlock," she pushes him away from her a few inches so that she can look into his eyes. "We need to get out of here."

Sherlock lets out a breath and nods getting to his feet. He holds out a hand to help her up.

 

***

They take a taxi back to their hotel. Sherlock sits forward, elbows on his knees, steepled fingers pressed to his mouth, clearly deep in thought. Irene watches him in silence. It has been a rather long day and she is beginning to feel sleep press at the corners of her mind, greying her vision at the corners.

All of a sudden Sherlock sucks in a breath, leaning back against his seat. His jaw is clenched in a way that tells Irene he has reached a conclusion but that he doesn't much like it.

"What's the plan?" She asks him.

Sherlock's mouth thins a little. "First of all, we're going to have to dismantle the Moran's network quickly. Once Moran Senior is dead it won't take his loyal supporters long to mobilise. We'll have to make sure we can strike first."

"Are you sure she'll keep her word about the files?" Irene asks.

Sherlock nods. " I think so. If anyone should suspect that she was involved in Moran's death , she would be as much a target as us. More so, perhaps. The safest approach for her is to sweep the board clean, and start again."

"So, what do we need to do?"

Sherlock makes a face as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. "We're going to have to ask Mycroft for help. Scotland Yard doesn't have the resources to make so many arrests in such a short period of time."

"Right. So we ask Mycroft to help us. And then?"

Sherlock glances away from her, out of the window. "I wasn't lying when I spoke to Fiona," he said. "I will need your help - and John's."

"Ah," Irene says, taking in the rigidity with which Sherlock is holding himself, the tense angle of his neck. She feels a wave of sympathy for the man who only ever had one friend, and had been forced to betray him terribly.

"You know, I expect he'll forgive you eventually."

"Probably." Sherlock says, but the hands clenched in his jacket pocket don't relax at all. There is a long silence as Irene watches him, the man who is so very good at pretending to be made of ice, staring out of the taxi window into the rain.

"There's something else, isn't there?" she says. "Something else is troubling you."

Sherlock breathes out through his nose. "It isn't important."

Irene reaches out a hand, and lays it on the edge of his arm. "I think it is."

Sherlock turns to look at her, blue gaze somehow both steady and remote.

"I have never killed anyone, Irene." He says.

"Ah," says Irene, a little at a loss. She tightens her fingers on his arm. "Well, there is a first time for everything."

"Yes," Sherlock says, looking away again. "There is."

***

They catch a few hours of sleep once they return to their hotel – or at least, Irene does. She isn't certain that Sherlock does anything other than lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling all night. Irene starts awake in the grey early morning light to find Sherlock sitting up, fully dressed and watching her with an oddly resigned expression on his face.

She pulls herself into a sitting position, a little groggily. The light streaming through the window is thin and grey, obviously a little before dawn.

"Time to get moving?"

Sherlock looks at her for a long moment, as if trying to calculate something in his head. Then he nods.

"My brother has breakfast at the Diogenes every morning at six thirty sharp. I suggest that you join him."

"You don't think he'll want to see you?"

Sherlock snorts. "I doubt it. In any case – I think it is better if we keep my survival from my brother for the time being. The fewer people who know the better – and he's already leaked information once."

Irene nods. "All right. And you?"

Sherlock hesitates for a brief moment. "I'm going to see John."

There is a short silence.

"I'm not sure which of us got the worst deal there." Irene says.

"Your meeting comes with considerably less probability of grievous bodily harm." Sherlock points out.

"True," says Irene. "On the other hand, your brother…."

"Point taken," Sherlock's mouth crooks up at once corner for a brief moment, before falling again. Abruptly he reaches out to fasten his fingers around her wrist, tracing the ring of bruises that have formed there.

"Yesterday was – I have come to the realisation that my judgement has been – faulty, recently. I haven't been as careful of you as I should have been." Sherlock's head is bent low, eyes avoiding hers.

"I am perfectly capable to taking care of myself." Irene says cooly.

"I know," says Sherlock. "Nevertheless. I shouldn't like to see you harmed."

"You won't." Irene says, meeting his eyes. She speaks with more certainty than the occasion really warrants, something she is sure they are both aware of. Nevertheless she thinks she sees Sherlock's shoulders relax a small fraction as he looks at her.

"All right then." Irene says, standing up, and walking to the wardrobe. "Let's get started, shall we?"


	15. Tiger Trap

Being in the Diogenes Club is a bit like being underwater, Irene thinks. The quiet in this place isn't an absence of sound but a tangible presence, like a weight of water pressing against her ears. Irene has to take deep breaths and remind herself that she can't _actually_ be suffocated by an atmosphere.

It's interesting, Irene thinks, the very different comfort zones the two Holmes brothers have built for themselves: to compare this highly polished, precisely ordered mausoleum of a gentleman's club, to Sherlock's flat in Baker Street, the kitchen overflowing with dirty dishes and potentially explosive experiments. She wonders if the brother's live their lives in deliberate defiance of one another, or whether the difference in temperament between them is merely incidental - one of nature's little jokes.

Irene doesn't have long to muse on the subject. Before long the door swings open (as smoothly and noiselessly as one might expect) and Mycroft Holmes enters his office. He seats himself at the little tea table by the fireplace, and almost immediately a waiter appears, placing a breakfast tray on the table in front of him. Mycroft carefully picks up the teapot and pours himself a cup. There is a tense pause, as Mycroft takes his first sip of tea, the waiter watching his face in apparent suspense. At last Mycroft lowers the cup slightly and inclines his head to the waiter - a gesture of approval apparently, because the man, visibly relieved, bows and leaves.

Irene waits until the door has closed before stepping out of her hiding place.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes."

To his credit, Mycroft's eyes widen only fractionally before he places his teacup carefully back into its saucer.

"Miss Adler."

Irene smiles at him and walks across the room towards him, brushing the edges of his desk with the edges of her fingers.

"I'm sorry, we aren't supposed to be speaking here, are we? You know I've never been very good at following the rules."

Mycroft smiles thinly. "Not to worry – exceptions can always be made. Please make yourself comfortable. I apologise – if I'd realised you were hiding behind that curtain I would have ordered a second cup."

"Oh well," Irene smiles, settling herself down into the chair opposite him and taking a slice of his toast. "I suppose we will have to make do."

She grins at him and takes a bite of the toast, then drops the bitten piece back into the toast rack.

Mycroft's eyes narrow in irritation. "Well. You are in a rather better state of health than I was lead to believe. I will have to re-evaluate my intelligence gathering strategies. And my security, it seems."

"Oh, that one's easy. The cleaner," Irene explains. "I know her rather well. Well, I know what she likes."

Mycroft sighs. "Ah. Predictable, I suppose."

"Rather,"

Mycroft picks up a piece of toast from the far side of the rack, and begins covering it with a thin layer of butter, fastidiously spreading the fat to the very edges of the bread.

"And so. To what to I owe the very great honour of your presence? I hope you are not intending to try and blackmail me again. I am sure we both remember that it didn't end well for you last time."

"No. As I recall, your little brother came charging in at the last minute with a deduction to save the day. Not so likely this time, is it?"

Irene isn't sure how he does it, but without discernibly shifting a muscle, Mycroft's face seems to harden, dark blue eyes emitting at almost palpable chill.

"I'm pleased to see that you have regained your old confidence." He says. "However I should advise you that whatever new advantage you think you have gained, I am not a man to be taunted."

Irene deliberately softens her expression.

"Forgive me. I did not intend to hurt you. As it happens, I liked your brother too. We have common aims, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft Holmes eyes her coldly. "Do we?"

"Yes." Irene leans forward. "You want revenge on the people who murdered your brother?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And so do I." Irene says. "We could work together."

"I don't make a habit of working with people who sell state secrets for their own amusement."

"No, I don't suppose you do." Irene says. "But you'll make an exception for me." She sits back. "Within twenty four hours I will hand you a folder with enough information to bring down James Moriarty's entire organisation, provided that you act quickly enough."

Mycroft Holmes raises his eyebrows. "Might I enquire as to how you are intending to obtain this information?"

"A girl has her secrets, I'm afraid." Irene says.

Mycroft Holmes gives her a long calculating look. "Why should I trust you?"

Irene shrugs."You shouldn't." she says, and gets to her feet."On the other hand, you don't have much to lose my cooperating with me. If you ready your people to make arrests and no information appears? I imagine you have dealt with false alarms in the past: no one will raise an eyebrow. On the other hand, if you refuse to do as I say you could be missing out on the chance of a lifetime."

"You phrase it very temptingly," says Mycroft, still looking up at her. "And what exactly do you stand to gain from all this, Miss Adler?"

Irene shrugs. "I have scores of my own to settle."

"Do you indeed?" Mycroft gets to his feet as well now. He is taller than he appears when sitting down. He is looking at her up and down, cold eyes appearing to take in every detail of her appearance. When his eyes reach her shoes he pauses, frowning slightly, placing a hand over his mouth.

"Do we have a deal then, Mr Holmes?" Irene asks him.

Mycroft looks up sharply, as if he'd forgotten she was there. For a moment Irene thinks she sees something in his eyes, a gleam of peculiar brightness, before his expression settles into his usual opaque mask.

"We do." He says. "I will put my people on stand-by."

"Wonderful." Irene turns to leave.

"Miss Adler?" Irene turns back to see Mycroft, looking at her. His body language is still as closed off as ever except for one hand, the fingers of which flutter briefly as if repressing he urge to reach for a particular object.

"Please tell my - please tell your companion that I am gratified to hear of his improved state of health. Tell him that he shouldn't be afraid to call on me. I will do everything in my power to ensure that he remain in that condition."

Irene blinks. "I'll tell him."

"Thank you."

Mycroft inclines his head to her briefly, before sitting again, straightening the tea things. Irene gives him one last assessing look, before quietly letting herself out.

***

Irene arrives at John's flat to find the front door already ajar. Walking up the first flight of stairs she hears a loud crashing sound from above. An elderly lady pokes her head out of the door on the landing, eyes wide. She beckons to Irene.

"I've been hearing a lot of shouting," she says, seriously. "Do you think I should call the police?"

Irene pastes a smile on her face.

"Oh, no. My boyfriend has been taking acting lessons. He can be a bit over enthusiastic sometimes. I'll speak to him."

The woman's eyebrows climb into her hairline. "Well, you'd better." She says. "All that kerfuffle– I though there had been a murder."

Irene smiles a sickly smile and ascends the stairs a bit faster.

" … just can't _do_ that, Sherlock…" John's voice from the other side of the door is only slightly muffled. Irene hears Sherlock reply at a quieter pitch but cannot make out the words.

"That is not the point, that is _so absolutely not the point_ , I don't see how you can…"

Irene knocks quietly on the door. The voices stop and after a few tense seconds, the door is flung open. Sherlock, pale faced and tight lipped, looks at her once, nods and then walks back into the main part of the flat. John Watson is standing in the kitchen with his back to the fridge, arms folded tight. A broken mug lies in the corner of the room. (Irene is relieved to see that it appears to have been aimed at the wall rather than at Sherlock.)

"Who…?" John begins, as Irene enters the kitchen. He looks at her in surprise for a moment, and then tilts back his head and laughs humourlessly.

Sherlock winces. "John…"

"Oh my God. It was you, wasn't it? _You_ were on the other end of that wire."

"Yes, but I –"

"Were you listening to everything I said?"

"Only the last conversation… John…"

"You know, when you said alone protects you I didn't realise alone's name was _Irene fucking Adler. This_ is who you trusted instead of me?"

"Well, I…"

"All that stuff I said… about mourning you, about our friendship, about _loyalty_. I must have like sounded a right idiot to you both."

"Some of the time, yes." Sherlock snaps.

There is a long silence where both men stare at each other.

"Right," John says tightly. "Well, that's clear. See you around, Sherlock."

He picks up his keys from the countertop and starts walking to the door. Sherlock moves to block his path.

"That wasn't what I meant."

"Get out of the way."

"You shouldn't have risked yourself…."

"Out. Of. The. Way."

"You had no idea of what you were up against, hideously underprepared."

"Out."

"I can't let you leave, John."

"Fuck _off_." John lashes out, shoving Sherlock back hard. Irene winces as Sherlock's head hits one of the kitchen cupboards with an audible thud.

Sherlock pulls himself up, and rubbing his head, follows John into the hall. "John," he calls to his friends retreating back. "John. You can't go. " 

John shakes his head and continues walking. 

"John. I need you." 

John stops short in the doorway, and seemingly with great effort turns around. He stares at Sherlock, jaw clenched, hands wrapped into fists. Then he deliberately tosses the keys onto the hall table and marches the few steps back into the kitchen. 

"Fine," he says, and Irene can see his entire body still vibrating with anger. "Explain." 

*** 

Sherlock tells John the story of the past few months in uncharacteristically halting fashion, glancing frequently at his friend as if looking for some sign of approval. John's face remains as impassive as a lump of granite however, though at a couple of points in the story Irene sees his eyes dart in her direction, expression speculative. 

"So," John concludes. "You need to off Moran, before one of the several people you've spent the last few months pissing off offs you." 

"Before they off all three of us." Sherlock says. "Yes." 

"Great," says John. "Fantastic. Thanks _so very much_ for coming back into my life, Sherlock. I assume you have a plan?" 

Sherlock hesitates. "Of a sort." 

"Are you planning to fill me in on it?" John's jaw is working rather dangerously. 

"Yes, of course I-" Sherlock meets John's eyes and halts for a moment as if suddenly at a loss for what to say. 

"Of course we will." Irene finishes for him. "We'll need you for the most important part, John." 

Sherlock twitches a little at this. They'd spoken at length that morning about the finer details of Sherlock's plan, and she knew Sherlock was rather unhappy about John's part in it. It is, however, the most logical course of action in Irene's view. 

John has shifted his gaze to Irene. "Go on," he says. 

"First of all, we need something to offer Moran. Bait. Sherlock is the obvious choice. The chance of catching him and killing him is probably the only thing that would lure Moran out of his safety zone." 

"OK," John says slowly. 

"That's where I come in. I play the part of Judas, lead Moran to Sherlock. What he won't realise is that you will be there too, and you will have your gun." 

"It isn't murder if you are shooting to protect me," Sherlock says. "No court would convict you for it. It won't – I mean, as I understand it, it doesn't interfere with your - morality." 

John gives him a long look, under which Sherlock actually seems to squirm a little. 

"We could still – if you like, give me the gun and I'll…" 

"No." John snaps. "Hell, no. I've seen your concept of gun safety. I'll do it." 

"You're sure you don't…" 

"I'm sure," John says. "You're right, I've shot to protect you before. If it's necessary, it's necessary." He turns his head away curtly, as if suddenly determined not to meet Sherlock's eyes. 

"Well, that's settled then." Irene says sweetly. "All that is left is to ready our trap." 

*** 

Irene finds Moran in the bar of the Malgrave hotel. She ducks into the toilets first to check her appearance. This is the con of a lifetime –she has to hit exactly the right note. People like Moran, charming high achievers with psychopathic tendencies, are difficult to lie to. They know how people are put together. How else do they become so skilled at taking them apart? 

Irene takes out her make up case, and realises that her hands are actually shaking. She doesn't get nervous a general rule. Doesn't allow herself to envision the prospect of failure. But the stakes this time are higher than they have been before. She doesn't want to die – and she isn't keen on seeing Sherlock die either. 

Irene forces herself to close her eyes, take a deep breath and open them again. She can do this. She looks at herself hard in the mirror. It isn't a bad thing to have the jitters, she tells herself. She can use that nervous energy in her favour. She looks at herself in the mirror and tries to convince herself that this pale face, the wild glittering eyes belong to someone who has just made a discovery that could make or break her criminal career. Irene lifts a hand, tugs a strand of hair out of it's bun. She's rushed here all the way from Watson's flat. Hasn't stopped to take a breath. _You can trust me, Mr Moran._

With a last scrutinising look at herself in the mirror, Irene pulls herself straight, and leaves the bathroom. 

Moran is sitting in the corner of the bar, a newspaper spread open before him . He doesn't look up as she approaches. She stands in front of him, and clears her throat pointedly. The man frowns, takes a sip of his whiskey, but doesn't look at her. 

Irene places a hand on the newspaper in front of his face. 

"Mr Moran?" 

He looks up, cold eyes glittering with anger. 

"I thought I made it clear last time we met I don't meet with people except by appointment." 

"I had to come and see you straight away. It's urgent." 

"Speak to my daughter." 

"It's a delicate matter, Mr Moran. I thought it was best to come directly to you." 

Moran raises his eyebrows. "I assure you, you can trust Fiona with any concerns you might have." 

Irene has to force down the slightly hysterical urge to laugh. 

"I know," she says instead. "But – if you are going to act on this we don't have long, and I – oh, hell. Sir, look at this," Irene pulls her phone out of her pocket, and shows her the photo she snapped from the street outside Watson's flat. John and Sherlock are standing in the window, heads bent, apparently conferring. Sherlock is wearing his old coat, hair returned to its natural colour. 

Moran doesn't gasp audibly, but Irene can see his lips part. 

"You see it?" she tells him. "Sherlock Holmes is alive." 

There is a long pause as Moran looks down at the photo. When he looks up at Irene his eyes are narrowed into slits. 

"If this is a hoax…." 

"It isn't," Irene says, and drops onto the stool in front of him, leaning forward earnestly. "I eavesdropped on them. Holmes is planning to go on the run, he's leaving in a few hours. We don't have long if we want to catch them out." 

Moran raises as eyebrow at her. "We? As in you and I?" 

Irene bites her lip, and then slowly lowers herself into the chair opposite. "From what Watson and Holmes were saying, we aren't the only people who know of Holmes' survival. Someone has been deliberately keeping you in the dark." 

Something in Moran's eyes flickers at this. Irene draws in a breath of relief – she was right when she guessed that the man is paranoid, that he distrusts almost everyone. Now if she can turn to her advantage…. 

"What exactly did Holmes say?" Moran says, voice rough and low. 

"He said he would be in touch with his contact. Watson asked who that was and Holmes just said he someone very close to you…" 

Moran takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring slightly. "If you are lying to me…" 

"You can question him yourself." Irene says, "He'll still be in the flat if we hurry," 

Irene meets Moran's eyes, forces her own gaze not to waver. _Don't call for back up. Don't ring your daughter. You can't trust you own people , Mr Moran, but you can trust me._

There is a long silence as Moran stares at her – then, abruptly, he nods, pushing himself up out of the chair. 

__"Take me to him."_ _

__***_ _

__The cab ride is tense. Moran sits forward in his seat, frowning. Irene tries to stay as calm as possible. There hasn't been any opportunity to text Sherlock and let him know they are coming. She is just going to have to pray that the boys are ready._ _

__On the pavement outside John's flat, Moran and Irene both look up at the window where Sherlock is standing, his distinctive outline clearly visible from the street. Moran looks up at him for a long moment, before Sherlock moves away from the window and out of their line of sight._ _

__"I'll show you the way up to the flat." Irene says, heart beating uncomfortably._ _

__Moran gives her a thoughtful look. "Will you?" he says._ _

__He places a hand on her arm, just above the elbow, gripping just a little too hard for it to be construed as a friendly gesture._ _

__They cross the road together, and Irene starts towards the steps leading to John's flat. Moran stops her, pulling her towards the next house._ _

__"Sir," Irene says. "That isn't the right building."_ _

__Moran's mouth curls up at one corner, a parody of a smile._ _

__"I have found, Miss Adler, that when entering an unknown situation it is best not to behave in predictable ways. Holmes will expect any intruder to come up the stairs. Best not to allow them to prepare for that, isn't it? In any case," he pulls Irene a bit closer and mutters in her ear. "I still can't discount the possibility that you are leading me into a trap."_ _

__Irene forces herself not to shiver._ _

__"I'm not,"_ _

__"I hope not, for your sake." Moran says and pulls her forward. They go up the steps into the next house, Moran pulling out a thin metal contraption and picking the lock with practised ease._ _

__"Stay close to me." He says shortly as they walk inside._ _

__John's flat is on the third floor, Irene remembers. They climb the three flights of stairs and stop outside the door to the flat that Irene knows must be next to John's. Moran knocks on the door._ _

__A young woman wearing a tracksuit and sweatband opens the door. She frowns at Moran and Irene. "Can I help you?"_ _

__"I do hope so." Moran says. The woman's eyes widen as she sees the gun in his hand. She moves to slam the door, but Moran has wedged his foot inside it. Unceremoniously he lifts the gun and strikes her hard over the head. She crumples to the floor._ _

__"Come on." Moran steps over the unconscious woman's body and, taking a breath, Irene follows him into the flat. Moran walks into the living room, and yanks open the front window. He looks out of it, across to Watson's window, and then down at the street below them._ _

__"How do you feel about climbing, Miss Adler?"_ _

__"Not a huge fan." Irene says, honestly._ _

__"Pity." Moran says. "Because I am not letting you out of my sight. Come here."_ _

__Irene follows him numbly to the window. He pulls her in close to his side, pushing her so she is half leaning out of the window. Irene swallows and tries not to think about the drop beneath her._ _

__"See that there?" Moran points to the top on the window lintel of the flat below them. Irene nods. "You're going to step onto that. Then you're going to step across to the one outside Watson's flat. You're going to keep your head low, and you're going to wait for me. Understand?"_ _

__Irene nods. Holding on to the window sill, she lowers herself onto the lintel below. Thank God, it holds. Trying hard not to think about what happens if she misses her footing, she jumps across to the ledge below John's window. For a brief horrible moment she can't seem to get purchase on the window sill above her, nails scrabbling at the rough surface, but then she manages it. She crouches low, waiting as Moran climbs down beside her._ _

__"Good girl," Moran says as he reaches her side. Carefully, he stands up, looking in at John's window. He is pulling his gun out of his pocket._ _

__Irene stands too. She can see Sherlock standing by the door, evidently still expecting Moran to come through it. His back is turned to the window - the perfect target. And Moran is aiming his pistol._ _

_Oh hell._ Irene thinks, and before Moran can shoot she raps sharply on the window. Sherlock jerks around, and Moran's pistol goes off, shattering the glass in front of them. Irene's eyes shut reflexively, ears ringing. 

__When she looks up, Moran's face is inches from hers, pupils dilated, furious. He raises the hand from the gun and brings it down hard over her head, knocking her sideways. Pain explodes in Irene's head, but she holds on hard to the window sill above her. No matter how much it hurts she can't let go. If she falls, it is all over._ _

__Dimly, Irene is aware of Moran shoving past her, lifting himself up, and climbing in through the shattered window. Blinking away bright sparks of pain, Irene pulls herself straight and with shaking arms, hauls herself in through the window after him._ _

__The first thing she sees is John, standing in the middle of the room, gun raised. One shoulder has clearly been wounded by the flying glass from the window – he is holding onto the hand holding onto the gun as if to support it, ignoring the blood seeping into his shirt. He is staring straight ahead of him, and when Irene turns to see what he is looking at her heart sinks. Moran is holding a bloodied Sherlock in front of him, one hand wrapped around his throat and a gun pressed to his temple._ _

__"Thought you could set a trap for me, did you, Holmes?" Moran says into Sherlock's ear. "Seems like you aren't such a clever boy after all. Oh, I really _am_ going to enjoy slitting your throat."_ _

__"John," Sherlock says urgently, looking at his friend._ _

__John shakes his head. "I can't get a clear shot."_ _

__"Been wanting this for a long time," Moran says. "After what you did to my partner…"_ _

" _John_ ," Sherlock repeats. 

__"I'll kill you." John says helplessly._ _

" _Do it_." Sherlock says. 

__There is a silence as Moran looks exultingly down at Sherlock, Sherlock and John staring, as if frozen, at one another._ _

__No one, Irene realises, is looking at her._ _

__She looks around the room and picks up the first thing she can find – a glass faced clock, clearly knocked off the nearby table in the struggle. She takes aim throws it, as hard as she can at the back of Moran's head._ _

__Irene sees Sherlock's body go rigid, and for a moment she thinks she hit the wrong man. Then, Moran sways and falls with a resounding crash to the ground behind him._ _

__There is a silence after Moran hits the ground, in which they all stare down at him. Then Sherlock looks up at Irene, blinking. "Good shot."_ _

__"Are you hurt?" John crosses the room to examine Sherlock's throat, and the cut on his cheek._ _

__Sherlock nods. "I'm fine. Irene?"_ _

__Irene forces her rather numb legs to walk towards him. "Bit of a knock to the head, but I'm all right."_ _

__They look down at the body at their feet._ _

__"Is he dead?" Sherlock asks_ _

__John drops to his feet beside Moran, feeling the man's pulse. His lips tighten. "No."_ _

__Sherlock crouches down beside his friend._ _

__"Give me the gun, John."_ _

__John turns to look at Sherlock, looking suddenly rather queasy._ _

__"He's unconscious," he says. "Unarmed. We can't…"_ _

__"Your gun, John."_ _

__John blinks several times but doesn't resist as Sherlock eases the gun out of his hand._ _

__Sherlock checks the chamber, pulls off the safety catch and presses the gun to Moran's head. He pauses for a moment, eyes glittering oddly as he looks down at the prostrate man. Then he swallows, takes a breath and-_ _

__"Wait," Irene says._ _

__Sherlock looks up._ _

__"You started this game by faking your own death. You helped me fake mine. If you asked your brother for help, I'm sure he could make Moran disappear. We don't have to do it this way."_ _

__Sherlock looks at her blankly for a long moment, before relaxing slightly, breathing out. He turns to John._ _

__"What do you think?"_ _

__John looks at Irene for a moment, eyes narrowed. Abruptly, he nods._ _

__"Worth a try."_ _

__"Very well," Sherlock removes the gun from Moran's head, standing awkwardly. He pulls a phone out of his pocket and tosses it to Irene. "Call my brother. John, you and I have rather a lot to arrange. Where is your laptop?"_ _


	16. Love Is A Losing Game

Mycroft's men arrive promptly, removing the still breathing body of Moran in a body bag. Sherlock watches them work with narrowed eyes but doesn't comment. He has had John take photos of the unconscious man from several angles, removed his wedding ring, gun and bloodstained wallet.

"Last chance to change your mind," Irene says.

Sherlock's shoulders are tense. "Yes," he agrees. Then he picks up John's laptop and begins uploading the photos they have taken.

Irene slumps down on the sofa beside him, suddenly exhausted. Her eyes seem to be closing of their own accord.

"Don't go to sleep," Sherlock says curtly. "John. You need to examine her. She's had a head injury."

John comes in from the bedroom where he's been changing his shirt. "Of course. Come with me."

Irene follows John into his bedroom. He gestures to a chair and pulls out his medical kit. He examines the wound that is half hidden by her hairline, carefully cleaning it. Then he shines a light in her eyes, tilting her head carefully.

"Any nausea?"

"No."

"Ears ringing? Feel confused?"

"No."

"But you're tired?"

Irene smiles at him. "I've spent the last few days running around London, breaking into secret criminal lairs and having stand offs with psychopaths."

John doesn't smile back. "Well, I don't think there's any reason for you to worry. You're going to have rather a nasty bruise and we should probably keep an eye on you tonight, but otherwise..."

"Take two aspirin and call you again in the morning?" Irene teases.

"That's about it." John says coolly, standing straight again, and putting away his kit.

"All's well in the world, then." Irene says.

John shuts his medical box with a snap. "Why did you tell Sherlock to spare Moran?"

Ah. Irene thinks. She'd imagined John was still angry with her about the deception but it appears she was wrong.

"You think I might still be on his side."

"If I thought that you'd be in that body bag with him." John says.

Irene raises her eyebrows. "Is that a threat?"

John shrugs. "If you like."

"You're very protective of a man you're apparently so furious with."

John folds his arms. "I have my reasons for wanting to look out for him. Right now I'm interested in yours."

Irene raises her eyebrows. "We made a deal, of course. He's going to help me get my life back."

John looks back out of the door to the living room, where Sherlock is presumably still sitting, tapping away on that laptop of his.

"And that's the only reason you're here? The only reason you're helping him?"

"Well, that and the sex is pretty good." she says, with a brittle smile.

John turns his head back to look at her so quickly she thinks he might get whiplash. He looks at her for a long moment, eyes darting over her face as if trying to take in every detail.

"Why did you tell him to spare Moran?" he repeats.

Irene takes in a long deep breath and looks away. It is a good question, Irene thinks. It certainly isn't the canniest decision she's made in her life. She stands up, and walks away a few paces, examining the wallpaper.

"You and I-" she says, eventually. "We've killed before. I've never had sleepless nights over it."

"Neither have I," John says, slowly. "Not over that, anyway."

Irene turns around, leaning back against the wall, to look at him."Sherlock could be like us. He would be even better at detaching himself – empathy doesn't come naturally to him. But that isn't who he's chosen to be - and that's important. Isn't it?"

John is silent for a long moment, apparently deep in thought. When Irene shifts, he puts out a hand, warningly, as if to prevent her from leaving.

"It's real then. This – thing between you. You do actually care about him?"

There are a lot of possible answers to that question and Irene struggles with the urge to bite out something sarcastic. But that would be counterproductive.

Irene forces herself to meet his eyes. "Yes," she says. "Are you going to be satisfied with that or am I going to get another if-you-hurt-him-I'll-kill-you speech?"

John looks at her thoughtfully for a long moment. "People hurt each other. You know that. I know that." he pauses. "I don't think he does though. That's why we have to be careful."

"I've already said that I don't intend to hurt him." Irene snaps.

John gives her an odd considering look. "Yeah, maybe not," he says.

Abruptly, John unfolds his arms, straightening his shoulders and smiling at her, more naturally now. "Come on, Miss Adler. We've been in here long enough. Our public awaits us."

He opens the door to his bedroom and ushers her out.

***

Irene meets Fiona on a bench outside the Natural History Museum.

"I thought we could go to the café," Fiona says, looking upward at the leaves of the trees above them. "But it's such a lovely day, why waste it?"

Irene takes the folder with the photos of Moran's body out, the fraudulent police report and death certificate, and the small bag containing Moran's bloodstained possessions.

"It's done. He's dead."

Fiona flicks through the photos which Sherlock had spent the morning carefully doctoring with apparent disinterest, her face expressionless. Irene tries very hard not to look as if she is holding her breath. Eventually Fiona nods distantly.

"I suppose you'll be wanting this." She takes a folder out of her bag and hand it to Irene. Irene takes a quick look inside, catching glimpses of familiar names and what look like detailed reports.

"I hope your people are prepared to act quickly, Miss Adler. It won't bode well for you if they don't."

"Oh, they will."

Irene gets to her feet. Fiona looks up at her shading her eyes against a sudden burst of spring sunshine peeking out from behind a cloud.

"Well. Goodbye then, Miss Adler. I've enjoyed working with you."

"As have I," Irene says insincerely. "Best of luck dodging the forces of justice."

"I won't need luck." Fiona smiles at her, before standing. "I'll see you around, Irene."

Irene watches Fiona walk away, hugging the folder to her chest. _Let's hope not._

***

They hole up in John's flat, waiting for news from Mycroft. John sits slumped in the armchair, his gun on the table beside him. Sherlock is by the window, apparently too jittery to even faff around with his laptop. Irene finds a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and pours them all deep glasses.

Her mobile rings. She picks up straight away.

"Mr Holmes?" she can feel rather than see the two men turn toward her.

"I thought you ought to be informed," Mycroft says. "The operation has been performed successfully. Your little friends shan't be troubling you any further."

Irene lets out a breath, looks at Sherlock and nods.

"Thank you," is all she says, before hanging up. "Well boys," she says turning to look at the tension filled room. "It seems that we pulled it off,"

A greasy takeaway, and most of John's alcohol supply later, and the atmosphere in John's ugly little flat has relaxed. John in particular has relaxed rather considerably, leaning back in his armchair with his tumbler of whiskey and chuckling to himself.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asks, eyebrows raising.

"Her. Moran," John flings an arm with rather more enthusiasm than judgement in Irene's direction. "The way she knocked him out. You realise she _literally_ clocked him one."

Irene surprises herself with an answering huff of amusement. "So I did."

"Dear God," Sherlock says. "And now the puns have started." But he smiles at John and is rewarded with an unmistakably affectionate eyeroll in return.

When Sherlock looks over at Irene there is a softness in his eyes that she hasn't seen before. The wine has flushed his cheeks faintly and there is a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Suddenly Irene rather wishes they were alone. A smiling, tipsy, happy Sherlock is a novelty Irene could spend some time exploring.

She shifts slightly letting her stockinged feet rest against his angle, dragging her foot slowly up the back of his calf. The expression in his eyes deepens a little, and Irene feels a pleasant frisson of anticipation.

"Whoops," John lurches forward suddenly, pulling something out of his pocket. "Someone's been calling me. Ahhhh, it's Lestrade."

"What does he want?" Sherlock says impatiently, not taking his eyes off Irene.

"He says : _What the bloody hell is going on, I've got hundreds of arrests to process from absolutely bloody nowhere, what have you been doing to my city and is it true that lanky sodding bastard is alive?_ "

"I do feel sorry for Scotland Yard," Irene says. "They always seem to be the last to know."

Sherlock grins at her.

John's phone bleeps again.

" _Tell that lying twat of a consulting detective if he doesn't get in here and give a statement I'm arresting him for obstruction of justice. I mean it._ "

"I'll go in tomorrow." Sherlock says dismissively.

John's face stiffens a little, and as he put the phone back in his pocket he suddenly he seems a great deal more sober. "The man thought you were dead." He says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm sure he was heartbroken."

"Actually, yeah. I think he was. He risked his job for you, you know." Sherlock glances at John, obviously taking in the suddenly tense shoulders, the growing frown

"Fine." He says, and pulls himself to his feet. "I'll see you later, Irene. Apparently I need to go and flagellate myself in front of all my associates, because saving their lives wasn't enough."

"Well, if it's whips they want I'm rather a specialist." Irene points out.

Sherlock smiles. "You're still dead, unfortunately. As much as I'm sure the world would appreciate a zombie dominatrix….."

"Now is not the time." Irene finishes for him. "Well, don't be too long. I'll be waiting for you." Irene drops enough of a suggestion into her tone that Sherlock smirks, looks up, catches sight of John's raised eye brows and actually turns very faintly pink.

John clears his throat. "All right then," he says. "Shall we go?"

 

***

Alone in the flat with a set of empty bottles, Irene quickly finds herself getting bored. It is an exceptionally depressing little place, the beige coloured furniture fading in to the off-white walls. Irene switches on the TV and tries to entertain herself for a while by speculating on which of the _Eastenders_ actors are having affairs with one another, before concluding that, in general, they led less interesting personal lives than their characters.

_Is this what life would be like?_ She finds herself wondering _Sherlock and John out having adventures, while I…._

The train of thought is rather dismal, and Irene decides to shelve it for the moment and go for a walk. Go to the off license maybe and top up John's alcohol supply with something of better quality. There is always a danger that Sherlock will have completely sobered up by the time he gets home, which in Irene's view would be rather a pity. Conveniently, Dr Watson has left his wallet on the kitchen counter.

It's still sunny outside, though with a buffeting wind that makes Irene pull her coat tight around herself. There is an off license not far away, and Irene picks up a couple of bottles and some chocolates.

As she leaves the shop she notices a pair of men leaning idly against the wall opposite. As Irene starts walking again they peel themselves off the wall and casually start walking after her.

Oh dear, Irene thinks and picks up her pace. She locates her phone in her pocket and begins carefully thumbing in a message to Sherlock. The street ahead of her unfortunately empty. Too quiet.

She rounds the corner to John's street, and another man steps out in front of her, tall, heavy set, a grim smile on his face. He isn't anyone Irene recognises from Moran's network, but that doesn't mean he isn't one of them.

"Irene Adler," he says. "We've been wanting a word with you."

There's a knife in his hand, Irene realises. "I'm perfectly happy to talk," Irene says surreptitiously reaching into her handbag for her revolver."If you'll just put away that knife…."

The man snarls and reaches forward grabbing her handbag and yanking it off her shoulder. Irene drops the bag she is holding and hears glass smash, crimson liquid flooding the pavement.

"Come on," the man growls, backing her into the entrance to an alleyway.

"I don't think so," Irene struggles and manages to break his grip, pushing past him– and almost colliding with one of the men who was following her. He shoves her backward, looming over her.

"Well, well," he says in her ear. "What have we got here then…."

There is a sudden loud bang and Irene starts, ears ringing momentarily. A pretty auburn haired woman in a beautifully cut trouser suit has appeared at the entrance to the alleyway, a pistol in her hand.

"Now gentlemen," the woman says, coolly. "Time to get going, don't you think?"

The men don't seem to need telling twice, taking off into the dark of the alleyway without a backwards glance. The woman turns her gaze, appraisingly, to Irene.

"Mr Holmes wants to speak to you."

***

The woman ushers Irene into an expensive looking black car, and then proceeds to ignore her for the rest of the journey, apparently immersed in her blackberry. Irene knows Mycroft Holmes' personal assistant by reputation and decides not to waste either of their time by attempting to talk to her.

Irene needs a little breathing space herself, her heart still pounding uncomfortably. She pulls out her phone with the message she'd been about to send Sherlock, considers a moment, and then deletes it. She's safe enough now, after all.

Mycroft's assistant takes her to an abandoned block of flats, apparently marked for demolition. Irene follows the woman into a darkened room, lit only by the blueish glow emanating from a bank of television screens all showing different scenes. Mycroft Holmes stands, leaning on an umbrella, in front of one of the control panels and speaking to the man operating the buttons.

"Mr Holmes."

Mycroft turns to look at her, blinking absently as if pleasantly surprised to see her there. Irene isn't remotely fooled.

"Ah, Miss Adler. I trust you are no worse for your adventures?"

"Were those Moran's men?" Irene asks. She is in no mood to play games.

Mycroft sighs, shifting his weight on his umbrella handle. "Mercenaries, I believe. Miss Adler, I am afraid that you find yourself in rather a tenuous position. It seems your affiliation with the Morans afforded you some measure of protection against those who would have sought to harm you. Unfortunately you still have rather a significant price on your head, and with the Morans' rather formidable presence on the London crime scene extinguished every journeyman assassin Britain is suddenly rather keen to make your acquaintance."

_Of course_ , she thinks. She was a fool not to have considered that.

"Sherlock promised me when we started this that you could offer me protection."

Mycroft says nothing, merely continues looking downward at the tip of the umbrella that he is leaning on.

"Well, can you?"

"I can," Mycroft says. "Within certain limits."

"Sherlock didn't mention limits."

Mycroft smiles thinly. "He rarely does. It is a matter for debate whether he realises such things exist."

Irene folds her arms tightly against her chest. "Are you going to help me or do I have to find my own protection?"

Mycroft tilts his head, considering. "I can offer you a safe house," he says. "My agents will keep a close eye on it, monitor who comes and goes. You can return to your old profession provided you understand that all clients much be vetted by my people. I am afraid it will be rather a restrictive existence."

"You're telling me I won't be able to go out."

"Excursions will have to be planned and discussed in advance. Otherwise I cannot ensure your safety."

Irene swallows at that.

"And this safe house will be…"

"Anywhere in London – anywhere you please. With one exception. " Mycroft turns to look at her green gaze as cold and flat as stones on a riverbed. "I cannot allow you to take up residence in Baker Street."

There is a silence as Irene digests this.

"You disapprove of my – partnership with your brother?"

Mycroft raises his eyebrows a fraction no doubt responding to Irene's less than skilful evasion of the word 'relationship'.

"Certainly I do. But that is not the reason I can't allow you to live in Baker Street, however."

"No?"

"My brother lives a dangerous life, as recent events have illustrated. I cannot have half the assassins in the Western Hemisphere arriving on his doorstep, especially as he finds ways to circumvent every security measure I put in place for his protection ."

"Your protectiveness is heart-warming." Irene says dryly. "And yet you haven't come to see your brother at all - Scotland Yard seems more interested in his return to life than you do."

Mycroft smiles at her, incongruously, as if she had paid him a compliment.

"Oh, but I have seen him. Daniel re-angle camera 1034582, will you?"

The man at the control panel moves a button, and Irene watches a new scene shift into existence on one of the small television screens. A man in a long coat is standing outside what Irene now recognises as the entrance to Scotland Yard, talking intently to a grey haired man in a suit. Without pausing in his conversation or turning his head, Sherlock shifts to stick two fingers up at the security camera focussed on his back. Irene smiles.

"As you can see, our relationship is entirely business as usual." Mycroft says dryly.

"And you want me out of his life," Irene says quietly, turning to look at him. "This isn't only about security, is it?"

Mycroft looks at her for a long moment. "My brother rarely forms emotional attachments," he says. "When he does they tend to be obsessive and long-lasting. One need only to examine his affection for Doctor Watson, or his dedication to that landlady of his to know that. If I could have prevented him from forming an attachment to you I certainly would have done. As it is, I am not arrogant enough to believe that I can undo what I have done. I can only seek to contain the damage."

Mycroft bends his head towards her, eyes glinting darkly.

"Imagine yourself, if you will, living in Baker Street. Your movements are restricted, but my brother's are not. You watch as he leaves to solve crimes and you remain at home, objectless and bored. Perhaps you could entertain clients, in a more humble manner than previously, in the basement. Would that be intellectually satisfying to you? What it fulfil the wants of your ambitious heart?"

"Imagine that you leave your gilded cage in Baker Street, perhaps swept up in the thrill of one of Sherlock's cases or some private intrigue of your own. It would only be a matter of time, I imagine, before one or both of you decided to defy my security. Imagine you are found and killed by one of the many assassins on your tail. How do you think my brother would react to that? You have never seen him grieving, Miss Adler, but let me assure you – he doesn't take to it well."

Irene swallows, looking at him.

"I take it you want to offer me an alternative?"

Mycroft suddenly smiles, for once with his whole face, the corners of this eyes crinkling.

"You are very astute. I told you once that I wished I had minds like yours working for the protection of our country rather than against it."

Irene blinks. "You want me to work for you?"

"I need someone abroad." Mycroft says. "Someone intelligent, brave… not over burdened with scruples… I believe you could be an excellent fit. I could give you the challenge you crave, as well as a very generous salary. I could offer you a level of roving security you would never achieve as a sitting duck in London."

"And I would be removed from your brother's life." Irene says.

"Temporarily." Mycroft says. "Yes. Think about it Miss Adler."

Irene looks at him for a long moment, face bleached in the blue light of the TV screens.

"I will," she says.

***

Irene can hear John and Sherlock talking and laughing all the way up the stairs. When they finally enter the flat it is like a small explosion of contentment, both men giggling like a pair of school boys.

"-still can't believe– he actually tried to hug you…" John gasps out.

"Revolting," Sherlock's deep baritone rumbles. "I can't account for Donovan's taste but I can assure you I have no desire to end up wearing that man's deodorant."

Sherlock appears in the living room, eyes gleaming when he sees Irene.

"Irene, you wouldn't believe – " he begins, and then stops, frowning. "There's wine on your stockings."

Irene looks down. It is true – a small fleck seems to have splashed onto the back of her tights.

Sherlock is staring at her, a sudden tension in his shoulders. "We were out of wine," he says. "So you went out. Bought a bottle. Dropped it. You aren't usually so clumsy. And you smell of –" Sherlock suddenly sniffs the air. "Gunpowder residue. You were attacked."

Sherlock's hands have bunched themselves into fists now. John is watching wide eyed and suddenly very serious, from the corridor.

"Nothing to worry about," Irene says coolly. "One of your brother's people saw them off."

Sherlock's eyes search her face. "And?"

"And?"

"Something else happened. Mycroft. What did he say to you?"

Irene takes a breath. "He offered me a job."

Sherlock actually bares his teeth in what looks like the beginning of a snarl. "I hope you refused him."

Irene feels a stab of irritation. "No, actually," she says.

Sherlock's lips tighten, eyes narrowing cruelly. "He's a control freak. You know he isn't actually interested in you. He only wants to take away everything that's mine, as usual."

"Oh, I wasn't aware that you owned me." Irene says.

"That wasn't what I meant," Sherlock says. "You know he only wants you because of how it will affect me. It's his revenge for keeping him in the dark all this time. The man is the pettiest-"

"Does it occur to you," Irene snaps. "That I have talents of my own, that I could actually be useful to him…. What do you expect from me, that I stay here waiting around while you play your games with Scotland Yard? That I spend the rest of my life sitting around bored out of my mind so you can score a point against your brother….."

"He'll be holding you over me the whole time, sending you into danger-"

"Because I'm never in danger when I'm with you!" Irene says. "Exactly how many times this week have we both nearly been killed?"

Sherlock flinches as though he has been slapped. "I know I've been reckless," he says. "I apologised for that. But believe me, Mycroft will have no interest in your survival. You'd be a pawn to him, a way to control me."

"Would I?" Irene says. "Do you really think I'd let myself be used like that?"

"You don't understand." Sherlock spits out, "He'll send you away."

And then all of a sudden Sherlock moving, coat whirling as he turns around and stalks out of the flat. Irene moves after him, but John lays a hand on her arm, his kind eyes full of entirely unwanted sympathy.

"Might be best to give him a minute." He says.

Irene pulls her arm free from his grip. The off-white walls of the flat seem to be closing in on her.

"I want some air," she says.

John looks uncomfortable. "From what you said," he says. "It isn't exactly safe for you out there."

Irene glares at him, and John bites his lip.

"There's a, um, sort of roof garden, at the top of the building." He says. "I don't go up there much but it could be safer for you, I guess."

Irene nods curtly and pushes past him.

 

***

'Sort of' is the operative word for the roof garden, Irene thinks. A few wilted looking geraniums in pots and a rather dirty bench is the sum of it. Still it is good to be out in the free air, and see the maze of London streets beneath her, the buzz of traffic and distant conversation. Irene sits for a while, coat pulled round her, feeling the intermittent spring sunshine on her face. Now that her irritation with Sherlock is fading she can't help but feel heartsick. She doesn't want to leave London. She certainly doesn't want to leave _him_. And yet…

After about half an hour she hears the door behind her creak. Irene doesn't turn around but she recognises Sherlock's slow methodical tread on the gravel floor. He stops beside her seat, arms folded behind his back, posture deliberately relaxed.

"An abysmal view." He comments. "Hardly shows London at its best."

Irene looks up at him. "It will have to do for now."

Sherlock's face is still paler than usual but his gaze his steady as he looks down at her. "You should take Mycroft's offer."

"Should I?"

"It's the logical thing to do. He can give you things I can't."

Irene is silent, considering this. "Are you giving me your blessing, then?"

"No," Sherlock says shortly.

There is a long silence as they both stare out at the sea of rooftops beneath them

"And so our partnership is at an end." Sherlock says. Sherlock's expression is very cold, very distant as he looks out over the spill of streets and rooftops surrounding them.

"Is it?"

"It certainly seems so."

Irene tries to control the stab of hurt that goes through her at that. Sherlock shifts slightly, restless and moves over to the edge of the roof. There is a railing at the edge, which he leans on rather heavily, looking downward. He is holding the railing rather tight, Irene realises. His shoulders under that concealing coat are subtly hunched, as he is preparing to fend off a blow. He'll send you away.

Irene gets to her feet. "You haven't kept your promises, Mr Holmes," she says.

Sherlock turns to look at her. "Oh?" he says icily. "And in what particular way have I failed you?"

"Do you remember the terms of our deal?"

"I was supposed to offer you protection." Sherlock's jaw tightened.

"And you have," Irene says, "But that isn't all you offered. Don't you remember the rest of it?"

Sherlock hesitates, looking a little confused.

"We were supposed to share our meals," Irene prompts him. "Share a bed. Have you forgotten the final condition?"

Sherlock looks at her uncomprehendingly. "I've kissed you plenty of times."

"This is different." Irene says, and takes a step towards him. "This is _my_ kiss. My payment. I'm owed it – and I want it, now."

Sherlock looks at her, expression unfathomable.

"You're going to make this more difficult." He says.

"No," Irene snaps. "Right now you are the one doing that."

She reaches up to grasp the lapels of his coat, pulling him towards her. He bends awkwardly, reluctantly, brushing his lips over hers, but Irene won't allow him to get away with that. She cups his face in her hands, pulling down again pressing her mouth against his harshly, lips bruisingly close. There is admittedly more feeling in the gesture than finesse, but it seems to work because Sherlock huffs out a breath, and his mouth opens slightly, and suddenly there is a sweetness to the kiss, a softness as well as an urgency. He is holding on to her now, pulling her close, hands on her sides mirroring her death's grip on his coat.

Irene turns her face slightly allowing her access to his throat, so that she can whisper in his ear. "Let's do downstairs."

Sherlock makes a low noise in the back of his throat at this which could be assent and pulls back, one hand closing around her wrist.

***

When they make it back to the flat it is empty, the ever-tactful Dr Watson clearly having given them the run of place. Irene nudges him towards the spare bedroom and Sherlock looks at her, messy haired and a little wild eyed. Irene reaches for him again, but he pushes her back.

"No, I want to see you," he says.

He takes her into the bedroom and kisses her again, this time with painful slowness, pressing her down beneath him into the bed. When she reaches for his belt he stops her, but undresses her carefully, taking the time to examine every inch of her that he uncovers with soft insistent fingers, and the gently teasing brush of his mouth.

I want to see you, Irene thinks, and can't help but gasp as Sherlock mouths at her navel moving slowly downwards. They hadn't done that before, thought Irene had been intending to school him on the subject. It doesn't seem like he needs lessons, she thinks as he gently presses her legs apart. She tries to suppress a moan as his mouth moves over her, breath hot against her thighs, and Sherlock looks up, giving her an irritated look. Ah, she thinks. He doesn't want her to hide what she is feeling. He wants to see her undone, falling apart. Well, she can give him that, she thinks leaning her head backwards and closing her eyes, giving in to the gasping breaths that are close to sobs.

Only when she is finished does Sherlock undress him, pulling off garments impatiently, before pressing into her with a stifled cry. She holds him close as he settles himself, revelling in the frantic sound of his breath in her ear.

 

***

Sherlock is very still beside her, staring up at the ceiling.

"I'll be back in London sometimes." Irene says. "And you'll travel. We can meet up – have dinner."

Sherlock tilts his face very slightly away from her

"It won't be enough." He says, voice hoarse.

"I know," Irene says. "I don't think we are the kind of people for whom things are ever enough."

Sherlock turns to glance at her for a moment before looking away again. He places one hand carefully over her wrist, a gentle weight, anchoring her in place. They lie together like this for a long time.

***

The car, black and gleaming, pulls up outside John's front door. Sherlock stands beside her, hands deep in his pockets and face still, watching it approach.

Irene finds she doesn't know what to say to him, unexpectedly conscious of the eyes of Sherlock's brother no doubt watching them from inside the car, of John Watson hovering awkwardly on the doorstep, brow wrinkled with concern.

"Well," she says. "It has been a pleasure, Mr Holmes."

"A mutual one." Sherlock says, quietly.

Irene turns fully to look at him. His face is still but there is an intent almost pained look his light blue eyes makes her heart thud painfully.

"I'll see you very soon."

Sherlock's mouth compresses for a moment, and he nods shortly. "I hope so."

Irene reaches a hand to him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and squeezing hard. Sherlock lets out a breath and leaning over gives her an awkward embrace.

"Goodbye, Irene." He says.

Inside the car, Mycroft is waiting with a sphinx like expression and a set of files, one of which he hands to Irene.

"Now Miss Adler." Mycroft says. "If you are ready, I'd like to discuss your first mission. Let me introduce you to a little operation we call Project Norton…"


	17. Epilogue

John can feel a faint draft coming in from the bathroom, making the door creak in the wind. He sticks his head inside and what he sees makes him smile to himself, and roll his eyes.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock is on the stairs conferring with Mrs Hudson about something or other. He looks up as John approaches, expression inquiring.

"I think you have a visitor."

Sherlock looks at John uncomprehendingly for a moment before his brow unfolds, eyes brightening. Without a word he pushes past John to bound up the stairs.

"Look at the boy," Mrs Hudson says affectionately. "She's back, then?"

"Seems so." John says.

"Now, I don't know why the girl can't use the front door. If I'd known she was here I'd have offered her a cup of tea."

"I don't think tea is what she's here for." John says.

Irene's visits always seemed to be preceded up a break in through the bathroom window. Sherlock describes it as a security measure, but John suspects the gesture has sentimental value for the two of them. It's the second visit Irene's paid them this Spring which is good news for Sherlock's mood. It's nice to see him happy – letting someone else _make_ him happy, even if it doesn't last long. Irene's departures are usually followed by several days of brooding silence, but by and large John thinks the brief periods of sunshine are worth the storm clouds. The moody bouts seem to be getting shorter and less intense, especially since Sherlock seems to have realised that although Irene leaves, she always comes back.

"Do you know," Mrs Hudson says, pleasantly. "I think I need new earplugs." John glances up at the ceiling above them.

"I think I might too." He says. Sherlock and Irene's reunions tend to be enthusiastic in nature and neither of them seem particularly concerned with keeping quiet for their neighbours. John's one tactful suggestion that the walls were perhaps thinner than they realised had been met with a broad smile from Irene, who had apologised insincerely for disturbing him and pointed out that he was always more than welcome to join them.

She had been joking, of course. At least, John hoped she had been joking.

"I'll pop out to the shops." John says. "Pick you up something."

"You are a dear," Mrs Hudson says, and pats his cheek. "You should find yourself a young woman too, you know. Or a young man. If Sherlock can do it I'm sure anyone can."

John makes himself smile back at her. "Oh, I'm all right."

The truth is, John thinks, as he heads off down Baker Street, however glad he is that Sherlock has discovered a brand of idiosyncratic happiness, it does make him feel oddly small sometimes. Sherlock has had a sort of serendipity in these things, John thinks, casting his mind back over his own history littered with failed relationships and unsatisfying dates. Sherlock had been interested in precisely one person his entire life, as far as John can tell - and it had worked out, straight away.

John has got too used to thinking of himself as the knowledgeable one in this area. Sherlock was the logical one, the socially oblivious genius who didn't feel things like others did. John was supposed to be the one who understood people, relationships. Apparently not.

When John gets back, several hours later, Sherlock and Irene are in the kitchen and Sherlock is trying to deduce Irene's latest mission. Another little shared tradition – Sherlock copes with his resentment against the fact that his brother employs his girlfriend by trying to deduce as many state secrets out of her appearance as he can.

Girlfriend. Another very odd word to use in connection with Sherlock, John thinks. Of course when one remembers that said girlfriend is a kind of female James Bond with a mind like a steel trap it makes rather more sense.

"All right, John?" Sherlock says later, giving him a scrutinising look over a forkful of takeaway curry.

"Yeah, 'course." John says surprised, wondering what he has done to make Sherlock look at him so thoughtfully.

The next morning John finds his laptop open with a yellow post it note containing a website address on it. Sherlock's handwriting. A little intrigued, John types in the address.

It opens a web page with a rather off-putting pink background. _Cupid's Arrow Dating Service._

"Irene and I set you up an account." A ruffle haired and heavy eyed Sherlock has appeared in the door behind him, making John start.

"What?" John says. "Why?"

"You were obviously unhappy about something." Sherlock points out. "Irene said you were jealous."

"What?" says John. "I'm not…."

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "You consistently pursue relationships with women you are unsuited to." He says. "Clearly you need help. This website employs an algorithm calculated deduce compatibility. Originally the website was put to some unpleasant uses, but it is under new management now, and the science behind it is sound."

John gapes at his friend.

"Come now, John." Sherlock says patronisingly. "Don't be difficult about things."

Sherlock Holmes is an utter arse, John thinks later, after he checks out the rather unrelentingly honest profile Sherlock has written for him.

 _About me: War hero with a pronounced but manageable adrenaline addiction, and overly emotional personality. Assistant to consulting detective and locum GP. Thirty six years old, but judging by appearances one would think closer to forty. Short, broad shouldered, good aiming skills. Can cook beans on toast. Seeks a broad minded woman for a committed relationship._  
  
The photo Sherlock has uploaded is awful – a shot of him and Sherlock waking away from a crime scene grinning manically. Jesus, you can see the crime scene tape in the background.

"You've made me sound like a complete psycho." John complains. "A _short_ psycho."

"If they are put off by an honest account of your personality and appearance there is no future in a relationship." Sherlock says. "I am merely saving you time."

"He wanted to write about your favourite sexual positions as well." Irene says, emerging in the sitting room, wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. "I told him you wouldn't like it."

"Oh, thanks." John says sarcastically. "Pity you couldn't persuade him not to do the stupid bloody thing in the first place. I'm deleting this, Sherlock, before anyone I know sees it."

Sherlock sighs darkly and rolls his eyes. "As you wish."

John's finger is just hovering over the delete button when a message notification appears in the corner of the screen. John hesitates for a moment, before deciding to open it. What's the harm, he thinks, as a picture of a pretty woman with a mane of curly auburn hair appears on his screen. He doesn't notice Sherlock smiling to himself as he pads into the kitchen to switch on the kettle.

***

John ends up going on a date with the girl from the website, after all. He turns up at the restaurant, in his best jumper, shifting nervously. He is somewhat convinced that this is all going to turn out to be some kind of elaborate prank or that his woman – Mary – will turn out to be some kind of psychotic Sherlock fan or an undercover criminal.

In fact the date goes well. Very well. Exceptionally well, in fact. Mary is a journalist, something that momentarily gives John pause, though it turns out tabloid gossip isn't her thing. In fact, she tells him, she used to be a war correspondent and had been working in Somalia before catching a rather nasty case of Dengue Fever and having to be shipped home. It's funny, John thinks. They'd both been away to war and come home wounded.

Remembering what Sherlock has said about honesty John describes his life with Sherlock in detail, and finds Mary surprisingly sympathetic. She has a mentally disabled brother who takes up a lot of her time, she says. She's been dumped before for her tendency to always put her career and her brother first.

"But I don't regret anything." She says, earnestly, and John finds himself replying:

"Neither do I."

They wind their way through the streets of London after their meal, reluctant to part at the tube stop.

"I hope we'll see each other again soon." Mary says.

"Yeah," says John. "Me too."

***

Irene is back for a whole week this time, which means no cases for the time being and Mycroft's security on the door. John doesn't mind – it's nice to have a break from chasing criminals, and it means he can set up a date with Mary without worrying that it is going to end with a kidnapping or a high-speed chase through the streets of London.

John returns from work one day to find Sherlock and Irene lounging like a pair of very expensive cats lazing the afternoon away in a patch of sun on the sofa.

"How were the plague ridden residents of London?" Sherlock asks as John puts on the kettle.

"Fine, fine." John says.

"Your last patient has suspected diabetes." Sherlock says. "You've been running blood tests."

"Not at all," says Irene. "It was an STD panel."

John only smiles to himself. It's strange sometimes to be around the pair of them, both so smart, and so utterly ruthless. He remembers once, in the beginning bringing a date home at the same time Sherlock and Irene were in. The poor girl had left in a fury, after Sherlock had deduced her correct age and Irene had pointed out her sexual incompatibilities with John.

They were too smart, those two. Dangerous for ordinary people to be around. Except, John is a very ordinary person and somehow it seems like they accept him. However rocky his relationship with Irene had been at the beginning, she actually seems fond of him now. When he'd brought Mary home for dinner that one time the pair of them had actually been almost sweet.

John remembers a story he'd heard in Sunday School as a child. The hero, Daniel, had been sent by the wicked emperor into a den of hungry lions. Everyone expected the lions to tear him apart, but instead they had simply sat beside him, leaving him to his own devices. John feels like that sometimes, with Sherlock and Irene. For some reason their claws are sheathed, their acceptance as warm as a cloak around his shoulders.

At last John's tea is ready and he takes his seat, kicking Sherlock's feet off of his armchair where they'd been resting. Irene gives him one of her lazy, sharp edged smiles as Sherlock grumbles at him. In his pocket John's phone buzzes. Mary is free this evening – they can go to the cinema.

John feels a wave of contentment pass over him as he settles back in his chair. He knew his life must look odd from the outside – living with a crazed detective, with randomly occurring appearances from his secret agent girlfriend, fixing colds in the day and running after criminals at night. But right now, with Sherlock and Irene sitting her with him, happy and relaxed, and with the thought of seeing Mary later, John can't help feeling however unconventional their lives were, maybe they had got some things right, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! A huge thank you to everyone who has supported me in writing this, especially all those lovely people who sent me messages, made art or left comments or kudos. I couldn't have done this without your help.

**Author's Note:**

> There is some truly fantastic artwork for this fic drawn by **frogsfortea** which you can see [here](http://frogsfortea.deviantart.com/gallery/). It's well worth a look guys.


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